


eighty days

by cautiouslyoptimistic



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:30:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22904710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cautiouslyoptimistic/pseuds/cautiouslyoptimistic
Summary: she was sad, that much she knewor, clarke and lexa meet at a cafe where they communicate too much and too little
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 30
Kudos: 279
Collections: good shit my guy





	eighty days

**Author's Note:**

> rereading before posting was a bad idea guys

**Three months, two weeks, and five days earlier…**

She was sad, that much she knew. It was to be expected really, the loss of someone you loved did that to you. Yet, in her heart of hearts, she also knew that perhaps she wasn’t healing as she ought. _A year has passed_ , she can still hear Anya tell her. _Don’t you want to at least try to get better?_

But the admonition, while said out of love and care and worry, merely fell on deaf ears. Because Lexa wasn’t sure how she was supposed to ‘get better.’ She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to ‘move on.’ She’d never experienced such pain, the feeling of having her heart ripped out of her very chest, the way it thudded against her ribs, the way her blood felt like acid in her veins, the way her diaphragm didn’t seem to contract and relax, preventing her from filling her lungs (suffocating her, suffocating her). She didn’t understand how she could wish away or work away or try away the emptiness she felt deep inside, the way she could never quite generate enough warmth, the way things tasted like ash on her tongue and were rejected by her stomach. Oh, she knew that Anya was right, that a year had passed, that she needed to learn how to cope if not move on, but she was unable to act on the knowledge, unable to actually _do_ anything.

And really, it made sense that it would be actively not doing _anything_ that would lead her down the street that would send her to the coffee shop that would change _everything_.

She wasn’t quite sure what made her stop in front of the coffee shop, studying it curiously. She wasn’t a big coffee drinker, often opting for tea. Yet, she was drawn to the small place, and with Anya’s words still ringing in her ears, a sudden surge (a sudden desire) to break her patterns took hold of her. So instead of ambling down the street as she was wont to do—instead of going on her way, aimlessly walking around like she always did, in order to pass the time, in order to ignore the ever present ache in her bones—she entered the café.

Her first thought was that it was small, her next was that it was wonderful. The space was taken up almost entirely by couches and chairs and small almost rickety tables. Two waitresses weaved between the patrons, handing out coffee and pastries and small sandwiches. In the back, two more workers were busy with making drinks, coffee, tea, lattes, cappuccinos. Bright landscape paintings of forests and the sky and the city from afar littered the walls, feet pounded on the wooden floors, there was a soft hum of voices, but more than anything, more than the color, the smells, the heavenly atmosphere, it was the warmth that drew Lexa in—that made her find an empty table in the back and sit down, content to stare at the other customers, listening to one couple break up, listening to a work meeting, listening to two friends catch up. In fact, she was so focused on her surroundings that she didn’t notice one of the waitresses step up to her table, a small smile on her face, until she let out a soft cough.

“Hi, sorry,” she added, noticing Lexa’s slight jump. “I’m Clarke. Can I get you anything?”

“Uh, yes. A coffee?”

“You asking or telling me?” Clarke joked, raising an eyebrow. Lexa paused, unsure how to answer, and Clarke grinned, taking the prolonged silence as permission to sit across from her. “I take pride in knowing all my customers,” she said, leaning back. “But I don’t know you.”

“This is your coffee shop?”

“Yeah, opened it two years ago with my best friend.” She pointed towards the other waitress, a long haired brunette who limped between the tables. “So? Who are you?”

“I’m Lexa. New. Customer, I mean.” Clarke laughed, and Lexa was startled at the _openness_ , at the way she seemed to allow her heart on her sleeve, proud to wear her emotions, proud to let others see them. Clarke laughed and Lexa could do nothing but stare.

“Well, Lexa the new customer, how about I get you something on the house? See if we’re worth your time?”

“But—”

“Don’t argue,” Clarke grinned, getting to her feet and waving off Lexa’s protests and her wallet. “I know people, okay? And one sip of my coffee and you’ll be hooked, so it’s not a bad deal for me.”

“That seems fairly over confident. I’m not much of a coffee person,” Lexa muttered, raising her eyebrows. Clarke laughed. Again.

“Well then, what do you have to lose?” she asked, and Lexa didn’t have an answer for her. Instead, ten minutes later, she found herself sipping at the cup of coffee Clarke placed in front of her, ignoring the café owner’s knowing smirk as she literally ascended, transcended. She didn’t like coffee, but what she drank was a perfect mix of sweet and bitter and _warmth_ , and it was the first thing that settled in her stomach, that left her feeling warm, that made her want _more_.

She didn’t like coffee but she liked this, and she knew nothing else could ever come close to it.

“I think,” Lexa admitted quietly, avoiding Clarke’s smirk and knowing gaze, “you were right. You’re going to have a new regular.” Clarke opened her mouth to respond, but at that moment the other waitress (or the other owner) walked by, snorting loudly.

“Don’t worry,” she said, pausing briefly to punch Clarke lightly in the arm. “It’s impossibly annoying and horrifyingly frustrating, but you get used to it. She even stops saying I told you so after a while.”

“I’ve never said I told you so, Raven!” Clarke protested, watching her friend and co-owner walk off, chortling to herself. “She’s an acquired taste,” Clarke added, looking at Lexa with a smile. “Unlike our coffee.”

(Clarke stopped by a few more times in the few hours Lexa sat there, reading a book, pausing to chat with Lexa in between her work, in between taking orders and wiping down tables. And when Lexa got up to leave, she pressed a to-go cup of hot chocolate in her hands claiming it was also ‘on the house,’ blushing slightly as she did so. And what was most certainly a miraculous twist of fate, Lexa felt her heart beat normally for the first time in a year.)

(That scared her enough that she avoided the coffee shop for days.)

**Three months, two weeks, and two days earlier…**

She took a deep breath before she entered the café, steeling her shoulders and keeping her back ramrod straight. Unlike the last time she’d been there, the coffee shop was fairly empty, only a handful of people sitting in the corner, chatting and laughing away. It wasn’t surprising, really, that she immediately zeroed in on Clarke. There weren’t many options, it was only natural.

“Lexa!” Clarke said the second she noticed her. “Welcome back!”

“You must have the self-control of a pro,” Raven called from where she was making a latte. “Because no one has been able to stay away for a whole day after drinking Clarke’s special. But you managed three, it’s impressive.”

“I’ve been busy,” Lexa said lamely, the excuse sounding weak to her own ears.

“So what will you have?” Clarke asked, motioning towards a table. Lexa shook her head gently, unable to meet Clarke’s eyes.

“Oh, I can’t stay. I’ll just take your special to go.”

“I see you’ve learned to tell me.” Was this flirting? Clarke was smiling, leaning towards her, and Lexa could do nothing but swallow hard.

“I suppose so,” she said, eyes now on the ceiling, ears and cheeks heating up as she heard Raven laugh. No. It wasn’t flirting, it couldn’t be. ( _A year has passed_ , she can hear Anya say again, her voice echoing in Lexa’s mind. _A year_.)

( _Slow_ , she thought. _You just move slow, and slow is okay_.)

When she paid for her drink and returned Clarke’s smile hesitantly, she could almost convince herself that her thoughts weren’t a lie.

**Three months, one week, and six days earlier…**

It was a ridiculous hour.

Not that that really occurred to her as she stumbled into the coffee shop. She heard someone call out that they were closed, but Lexa ignored it, choosing instead to collapse onto the nearest chair, putting her head down on the table, her hands pressed against her temples.

“Lexa?” Clarke, it was Clarke. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“Is she drunk? Is she going to throw up?” That was Raven, sounding upset but not concerned. “I just mopped up the floors.” Ah, that was why.

“Are you drunk, Lexa?” Clarke asked, her tone considerably kinder than Raven’s, kneeling down next to Lexa’s chair, one hand hovering hesitantly over Lexa’s elbow.

“No.”

“What to tell me what happened?”

“No.”

“No offense then, but why are you here?” Lexa swallowed hard and she looked up, meeting Clarke’s gaze evenly.

“I want to be warm. I just want to be warm.”

**Three months, one week, and five days earlier…**

“Where were you last night?” Anya asked as she walked into Lexa’s apartment, unannounced and uninvited. Lexa suddenly regretted ever giving the older woman her spare key. “Because I came by, and you weren’t here,” she continued without giving Lexa the chance to reply (or more accurately, considering how well Anya knew her, the chance to lie).

“I was out.”

“Clearly.” She walked over to where Lexa sat on the sofa, kicking her legs aside and making herself comfortable. “Another break down?” she asked lightly, digging through Lexa’s bowl of popcorn, her eyes on the television. (Lexa knew Anya’s attention wasn’t actually on it, she knew because it was on a nature documentary, which Anya liked to call ‘hippie propaganda.’)

“Minor, at best.”

“Where did you go?”

“A coffee shop.”

“You’re supposed to call me.” It was clear she was trying to be firm with Lexa, but mostly, the admonishment sounded relieved. “So…what happened?” Lexa didn’t answer right away, choosing instead to pull her bowl of popcorn away from Anya, giving the older woman a stern glare.

“I panicked. I was close to the café. I went in there for a coffee. Simple, really.”

“You don’t like coffee.”

“You haven’t had their coffee.” Anya pursed her lips at Lexa’s response, like she wasn’t convinced but couldn’t think of a way to argue her point. She leaned back, finally turning to look at Lexa carefully.

“Have you worked lately?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You liar.” Lexa grinned, getting to her feet and handing Anya the popcorn back, making the other woman cease her frowning for a moment. “Will you start working again soon?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you just waiting or…?”

“Yes, I think so. It’ll pass, Anya. Don’t worry.” But rather than smile like she expected Anya to do (like she always did), she got another frown and a soft shake of the head.

“Oh kiddo. I hope so.” 

**_ One year, three months, one week, and two days earlier… _ **

She hadn’t left Anya’s apartment in days (exactly one week and a half, but who was counting?).

Her best friend hadn’t really complained about her sudden new roommate, but Lexa could tell that she was at best annoyed with the arrangements. Not that she didn’t care or understand Lexa’s situation (she did, she was there, which was both humiliating and lucky for Lexa), but she was of the opinion that when life knocked you down, there was nothing to do but to spring right back up, undaunted and unafraid—ready to fight back.

But Lexa was tired of fighting.

Her bones ached, her muscles were sore, she felt faint and fatigued and ready to give up. It used to be that she believed there was a reason for everything—that bad things happened in order for something new, something better, to come into being. But now she realized that was what people said to themselves in order to keep the pain at bay—a pain she was now intimately familiar with. A pain she now carried with her wherever she went.

“You work today?” Anya asked when she got home, tossing Lexa a dinner Lexa easily ignored, not in the mood to eat, not in the mood to move off the couch.

“No.”

“Plan on working anytime soon?”

“No.”

“I’m going to charge you rent if you stay here.”

“Okay.”

“Lexa.” Her voice softened, and that was the only reason, the _only_ reason, Lexa found the energy to sit up to meet Anya’s gaze. It had nothing to do with the hint of sorrow in Anya’s voice, nothing to do with the guilt that surged in Lexa’s chest, nothing to do with the sudden urge to tell her best friend everything was all right. She looked up _only_ because Anya’s tone was softer. “It’s only been ten days. Give it time, it’ll pass.”

“Yeah.”

**Three months, one week, and four days earlier…**

She was in love.

With the coffee.

That was the only explanation she had for why she went back to the café after her minor breakdown only two nights previously. Normally, she wouldn’t do this sort of thing, develop a habit, a need, a desire. She’d learned (the hard way) how to shut down those parts of her, knowing that any opening would leave her vulnerable, would leave her in pain. But the coffee shop was somehow an exception, and as she entered, her head held high, trying not to think of her embarrassing breakdown, she felt nothing but relief.

Because in a few minutes, she would feel warm, she would feel full, and she owed it all to a drink she wasn’t even that fond of—or at least, barely so.

“Back again, I see,” Raven said cheerfully as Lexa sat down at a table in the back, away from prying eyes. “And not drunk. That’s good.”

“She wasn’t drunk the other night, Raven, stop picking on her.” This was said by the woman busy making coffee, dark haired and fiery eyed, her movements sure and swift, a slight grin on her face.

“I’m not picking on her,” Raven immediately protested, taking the cup from the other woman and bringing it over to Lexa’s table. “Octavia is protective of our regulars,” she said as she set the cup down. “But this, this one is on me.” She pointed to the cup, the other hand on her hip as she leaned against Lexa’s table. “You doing better?” Her voice was suddenly gruff, her back becoming stiff, and her eyes—which had not wavered once from Lexa’s—now were focused on the ceiling.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“Well good,” she said, clearing her throat roughly. “But,” the playful tone back in her voice, “this’ll be the first and last time I buy you a coffee, just saying.” She nodded once, then turned around and stalked off to take care of the few other customers while Lexa sat there, watching Octavia laugh and joke around with a man who’d arrived a few minutes later, watching as the café slowly filled with patrons and the soft hum of voices filled the air.

She sat there, and for the first time in one year, three months, two weeks, and four days, she itched for paper and pencil.

The feeling, familiar and safe, took her by surprise, her breath hitching as she struggled to keep her calm. Because it was there, suddenly, after a prolonged absence. It was _there_ , the humming in her bones, the thrum in her veins, the jump in her throat, the steady and heavy pumping of her heart. It was there, desire and need that she’d not felt in quite awhile, something that had burrowed its way into the deepest recesses of her mind and only now (after it had been buried with ton after ton of baggage and pain and anger) had decided to clamor for a way out.

And giving into it, that was easy. It was normal.

She reached into her bag and pulled out the pen and paper she always carried with her, and though she had nothing to say, though she had nothing in mind, she began to write, sure that the words were already at her fingertips, ready to be let go (for that was how it always worked, it was less an active process and more of an unloading—a release).

And it was like coming home after being away for a long time: it was familiar and hers, yet at the same time, it smelled and looked and felt different. The pen felt like an intruder between her fingers, the paper beneath her hand rubbed her skin raw, the words came sloppily and halfhearted—as if she was still unsure, still hesitant, worried about what cobwebs she’d find.

Yet the words came, the flowed out of her like blood from a wound, gushing and pouring before her body came to its senses and it clotted up, closing off the opening, putting a stop to the loss. And when she looked at the result, she grimaced, drained the last of her coffee (ice cold, chilling her to the bone), crumpled up what she’d written, and left—leaving it behind, needing to leave it behind.

They were just words, she thought to herself. What did words mean anyway?

_//_

_My mother, possibly in an attempt to protect me (though more likely in an attempt to protect herself), once told me that love was merely a construct. “It is not real. If it were, there wouldn’t be so much pain.”_

_I didn’t understand her then, but I would understand her many years later, when I first fell in love. She was soft, sweet, kind; her hair smelled of roses, her eyes dark—so dark you could almost imagine yourself falling into them, floating in free space, suspended by her warmth and her love._

_But that love, or any love, was not meant to be. And as the pain rippled through me, I thought of my mother’s words, her claim that if love existed there wouldn’t be nearly as much pain. I thought of how if love was real, I’d stay suspended in that space forever. If love was real, I’d stay warm. If love was real, she would have embraced me, she would have stayed. If love was real, if people could truly love and be loved, there would be no reason for sorrow. No reason for pain._

_No, love is not real. Love cannot exist—if it did, I would not feel as I do. I would not hurt as I do._

_//_

**Three months, one week, and three days earlier…**

She only wanted to stop for what was quickly becoming her early morning fix. She only wanted to stop for her coffee. But what she saw, tacked neatly onto the bulletin board in the back, where she’d seen students placing advertisements for books and apartments and ‘Tutors wanted!’, was her impromptu release. And next to it, there was a reply, short, looking like it’d been carefully written—carefully placed to ensure it was seen should the short rant be noticed:

_Have you considered that we feel pain because we love?_

And for the second time in as many days, Lexa felt that itch again.

**__ **

**_ One year, three months, and one week earlier… _ **

She got her shit together.

She went back to work. (At least, that was what she told Anya.)

She became skilled at hiding the pain. Hiding the hurt.

She decided she’d never love again.

**Three months, one week, and two days earlier…**

“All right. Who the fuck did this?” It was Raven, glaring at the bulletin board where a reply (Lexa’s reply, wanting something more than what had been offered) had been posted: _Explain_. “I get it, artsy people come in here. But whatever happened to an honest fucking conversation? A normal one. With spoken words, looking at each other, preferably with a cup of coffee that they’ve bought from this fine establishment. Back me up, Lexa the Regular.”

“It’s not my café, Raven.”

“I think it’s cute,” Clarke said, grinning slightly. “It’s like…a battle of ideologies. But anonymous. And not that creepy way you see online. But nice, you know?”

“God, why do I even talk to you? You’re one of those artsy people.”

“Are you really, Clarke? What do you do?” Clarke opened her mouth to respond to Lexa, but Raven beat her to it, rolling her eyes as she spoke.

“All those paintings you see hanging up on the walls? All Clarke’s.”

“That’s quite impressive,” Lexa said, paying Octavia for her coffee, avoiding the look on the barista’s face. It was too knowing, too gleeful. “Did you study art?”

“Clarke? Please,” Octavia scoffed, motioning for Lexa to stand to the side so that she could both serve the next customer and continue their conversation. “She studied her butt off in college, got into medical school, was barely a year away from graduating when she dropped out, borrowed some money from her mom and opened up this dump.”

“A dump,” Clarke said irritably as she wiped down a table, “that pays you, you know, to actually work. Not gossip.”

“Lexa’s a regular.”

“No offense to Lexa,” Clarke said, throwing her rag down, giving Lexa an apologetic look, “but I’d rather not talk about my personal life.”

“I understand. It’s private.”

“Fine, but what about the conversation going on over on the bulletin? You’re going to let it keep going?” Raven asked, moving on quickly, not allowing them to lapse into an awkward silence. Clarke shrugged.

“As long as it’s a clean, polite conversation, I don’t see why not.” And inexplicably, Lexa smiled.

**Three months, one week, and one day earlier…**

****

_Structuralists say that there’s a binary opposition to everything: good vs evil, right vs wrong, on and off, yes and no, that this conflict, this dual nature, is what gives things value and meaning. We can’t understand good without knowing evil, and vice versa. So why shouldn’t love have an opposite? Love, whose opposite isn’t hatred (because hatred, if you think about it, is an extension of love—to feel so strongly about something, you’ve had to have loved it at one point, or else, where does that emotion come from, stem from?), but the absence of love at all: pain. We can’t experience love without the experience of pain, and it is because we feel pain that we can love._

_You say love can’t exist because you’re hurt. But that in fact shows just how much you felt, how strongly you felt. The pain rippling through you is a sign of that love—it proves its existence rather than denies it._

**Three months and one week earlier…**

_In that case, I’d rather not love, to spare myself the pain._

**Three months and six days earlier…**

_I wish I could say that works, but it doesn’t. Unfortunately, love isn’t one of those things you can control. (At first, I wanted to say the pain is worth it, but that would make me a hypocrite.)_

And to that, Lexa had no response. 

**Three months and five days earlier…**

“So this is where you go every day,” Anya said, raising her eyebrows as they walked into the café. Lexa didn’t respond, only waved to Raven and Octavia who were chatting by the tables up front. “It’s a dump.”

“That’s the second time I’ve heard that in less than a week, and now I’m starting to get offended,” Clarke muttered, arms crossed over her chest. “We’re not open yet, Lexa. You’re five minutes too early.”

“Which is practically late for her,” Anya said helpfully, punching Lexa lightly on the arm. “She’s very punctual.”

“Thank you, Anya, for that assessment.”

“I think that’s Lexa speak for she’s pissed,” Octavia chimed in, smiling a little to take the bite out of her words.

“Lexa speak?”

“Oh yeah, you know, how she understates this to an enormous degree that it’s almost laughable?” Anya grinned, actually sticking out her hand.

“I actually can see why you like this place, Lexa,” she said, but Lexa’s eyes were on the bulletin board where something new had been posted: _It might not be worth it, but I don’t know. Does that mean we shouldn’t even try?_

**Three months and four days earlier…**

When Lexa walked into the coffee shop, she didn’t expect to see a horde of people standing in front of the bulletin board, craning their necks and pushing each other. Lexa frowned and made to step over to see what was going on when she felt a tug at her sleeve, the sound of someone clearing their throat in her ear.

“Apparently, the notes back and forth are popular,” Clarke muttered, the slight frown on her face turning into a grin when Lexa just shot her a look. “I don’t know whether to be pissed that two people arguing has drawn in more customers than my coffee or to just be glad of the business.”

“You don’t agree with what they’re saying?” Lexa asked, raising her eyebrows. Clarke rolled her eyes, pulled on Lexa’s sleeve, dragging her to the other side of the café and pushing her down in a seat.

“It’s not that I don’t agree,” Clarke began, sitting across from her, a sigh spilling from her lips. “It’s just that I don’t care. Love is for saps and dreamers.”

“I don’t understand. You don’t believe in love?”

“Oh, no. I do. I just think it’s a bunch of chemical reactions, a biological imperative. The love they’re talking about?” She nodded over at the crowd, a displeased expression on her face. “That love is different.” Something must have showed on Lexa’s face, because Clarke shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s bigger. It’s _more_. And I just don’t think people are capable of it.”

“Capable of feeling that way?”

“Willing to open up enough in order to feel that way.” Clarke leaned forward, her eyes boring into Lexa’s, the blue mesmerizing. “Everyone has walls behind walls behind walls. And we think if we tear one down for someone, we’re in love. But the real stuff? That means grand scale demolishment, and people just don’t have the right equipment.” 

“And if I told you I’ve felt the real stuff. The bigger thing?” Clarke’s eyes were sad as she stared at Lexa, her hair messy in its bun, a coffee stain on the sleeve of her shirt. (Lexa took it all in, wondering for the first time if it wasn’t the coffee that made her feel warm after all.)

“Did you? Or did you just tear down one wall to put up two more when things didn’t work out?”

“How did you know?”

“That you have a big, tragic backstory?” Her smile was small, commiserating, one Lexa had seen a thousand times on the faces of well-meaning friends and family. But for the first time, she didn’t feel a prickle of annoyance; she didn’t immediately want to get away. Because her focus was on Clarke’s eyes, her blue eyes, which were filled with sadness but also understanding. And Lexa felt a tug at her heart. “Who doesn’t have a big, tragic backstory?”

“Normal people?”

“Yeah, but you’re not normal.”

“And how do you figure that?”

“I don’t know. I can just tell.” She smiled wider and got to her feet, shrugging awkwardly. “Anyway. I wanted to spare my favorite regular the crowd.” She gestured to the bulletin board, where the people gathered around it had finally moved away. “Coffee to go?”

“Yes, please.” Lexa watched Clarke walk off before she got to her feet and stood in front of the bulletin board, looking at what had garnered so much attention. There, in small, neat handwriting—decidedly different from the first few responses—was a single word:

_No._

Beneath that, there was a drawing. It was of a wilted flower.

For whatever reason, Lexa found that appropriate.

**_ Eleven months, one week, and four days earlier… _ **

_They told me to write you letters—Well. Some sort of psychologist/therapist Anya is making me see, I should say._

_He’s nice enough, the therapist. His office is wide, he has a big wooden desk, and there’s this faint smell of tobacco in there that I like. It reminds me of my dad. I told you about my dad, didn’t I? He would’ve liked you._

_Or maybe not. My dad didn’t like many people._

_This is a terrible letter. I know it is. I just…don’t know what to say. What do you say to the person who hurt you, who destroyed you, who you should hate with your entire being? You know. To that person you’re still hopelessly in love with._

**Three months earlier…**

“Hi stranger,” Clarke said cheerily the second Lexa stepped into the coffee shop. It was early, and thus not yet full of people idling around. “Long time no see. The usual to go?”

“No. A tea please.” Clarke frowned but she didn’t comment, nodding over at Octavia instead. Raven, however, who was sitting at a table, legs propped up on one of the chairs, leaning back dangerously, had no such reservations.

“What happened, huh? Three days and now you’re a tea drinker?”

“I’ve always preferred tea.”

“Yeah, but this is Clarke’s coffee we’re talking about. Once you’re converted, there’s no going back.”

“Leave her alone,” Clarke said, coming over to stand next to Lexa, her arms crossed over her chest, a disapproving look directed at Raven. “Don’t you have work to do?”

“Other than meet with Bellamy and listen to him drone on, no. I’ve got nothing.”

“Hey. My brother is helping out for free. You could at least be nice to him. I don’t see anyone else running to help,” Octavia said, her voice hard as she stepped out from behind the counter and practically shoved Lexa’s tea at her.

“Please, you and I both know your brother is running to help because of you and only you. If you didn’t work here, you think he’d give a damn?” Octavia opened her mouth to respond but Clarke raised her hands tiredly.

“Octavia, we’re all very grateful for Bellamy’s help. We appreciate it. And Raven, why he’s helping doesn’t matter.” She stared at the two of them, looking from Octavia who’d snapped her jaw shut to Raven who frowned guiltily, and after a moment they both shuffled off, muttering under their breath about inventory and work and getting things done. It was only then that Clarke noticed Lexa was still there. “We’re not always so dramatic. It’s just…working with your friends, you know?” Lexa merely nodded, not sure how to explain that she _didn’t_ know, that Anya was her only friend and had never allowed personal grievances to affect her behavior at work. “Well. Um, was there something else you needed?” Clarke asked when Lexa didn’t make to leave. This time, she found herself smiled.

“I haven’t paid yet.”

“Oh.” Clarke blushed and nodded, walking to the counter as Lexa slowly followed. As Clarke busied herself with getting Lexa’s change, Lexa mulled over how to ask what this Bellamy character was helping out with without sounding nosy. She’d just decided to stay silent on the matter (Clarke wasn’t her friend, she was just a café owner, there was no reason to care), when she noticed the sad smile on Clarke’s face, and the words tumbled out of her without her consent.

“Are you all right? This thing Octavia’s brother is helping with, perhaps I could help as well?” Clarke stared at her in surprise, the seconds dragging on awkwardly, before she cleared her throat and shook her head.

“Thanks, really. You’re doing plenty by just buying something everyday. The business helps.”

“Are you sure?” Clarke looked at her oddly then, as if confused, but still, she nodded.

“Yeah. It’ll be fine. See you tomorrow.” It was a clear dismissal, a refusal to keep talking about whatever was going on, but it was also a question—said fragilely, almost hopefully, and it was Lexa’s turn to be confused.

“Yes, tomorrow.”

**_ Eleven months and six days earlier… _ **

_I’m supposed to write everyday. And I do. But for whatever reason, the other letters ended up shredded and trashed. I’ll make sure to keep this one though._

_Anya visits me more. She’s worried I’m going to slip. She tells me I should get back to work, like that’s my only problem, or that somehow I’ll magically get better._

_I asked my therapist if it’s normal to lose interest in everything. He told me I could feel this way for some time. Something about everyone healing in their own way and pace._

_I called him a coot. He scheduled me another appointment._

**Two months, three weeks, and six days earlier…**

She stopped by after work instead of before, a notebook tucked securely into her bag, ready to invest a few hours in the coffee shop, to try (as Anya said) and get the “juices flowing.” (She wasn’t overtly optimistic that it would work—optimism, she’d learned, was for people who’d never been hurt.)

Octavia shouted out a hello when Lexa walked in, Raven grinned widely, and Lincoln waved merrily, but Clarke was nowhere in sight. Trying to ignore the sudden and strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, Lexa chose the table closest to the bulletin board, and settled down, pulling out her notebook and pens, ready to work.

And after an hour, staring blankly at the blank page, she realized it was hopeless.

Lexa turned to look at the bulletin board, where the conversation between her and a stranger were still pinned up. What had it been about that particular day that she’d felt inspired again? Was it because Raven and Octavia, in their own weird way, had managed to make her smile? Was it because of the gentle hum—a hum that was absent today, the café feeling a little more empty than usual—or the smell of Clarke’s special coffee that broke down all her resistances and had her writing? She stared distastefully at the cup of tea next to her notebook. It’d gone cold a long time ago, she’d been thinking about getting another, but what if the tea was the problem? What if she was incapable of getting work done because she’d abandoned the thing that had broken her out of her self-induced hibernation: the coffee?

Yet, for whatever reason, the mere thought of the coffee sent her heart racing. It was too much caffeine, surely. It was bad for her. If she drank it now, she’d never be able to go to sleep. There was no way a _drink_ could be the reason she wrote again for the first time in over a year.

Lexa pulled her eyes away from the drawing of the wilted flower, and with a sudden urge to play the devil’s advocate, she wrote a messy sentence, tore the page out of her notebook, and tacked it onto the bulletin board.

And without a look back, she put up her things, cleared off her table, and left the coffee shop feeling colder than ever.

**_ Eight months, three weeks, and six days earlier… _ **

_I haven’t written in a while._

_I think I’m doing better._

_I still see the therapist._

_But you don’t care, do you?_

**Two months, three weeks, and five days earlier…**

“I’m sorry, but I don’t even know what’s going on anymore,” Octavia said, rolling her eyes at the bulletin board. “How many people are even responding?”

“I think it’s three. The one who doesn’t believe in love, the one who said love is great, and the one who doesn’t want to try at all,” Lincoln said helpfully, scratching his head.

“And the last one? What the fuck does “ _What sort of life would it be if we didn’t try at all?_ ” mean?”

“Honestly,” Raven said tiredly, collapsing into a chair, “I think it means what it says.”

“Yeah, but this is the same person who was all anti-love,” she protested. “Why the change of heart?” 

“Maybe it’s not a change of heart,” Lincoln said, putting away another chair, giving Raven a pointed look when she refused to get up from hers. She merely hooked a thumb in Lexa’s direction, wordlessly indicating that if Lexa got a chair, she should too. Lincoln rolled his eyes and continued to speak. “I don’t think the first person is actually anti-love. They’re just…sad. And they want hope.”

“Or they’re being the devil’s advocate. Asking questions to draw out a reaction,” Lexa muttered. Raven snorted.

“Yeah, and I walk a tightrope.”

“She’s being sarcastic,” Clarke said before anyone (namely Octavia) could speak up. “Hi Lexa,” she said in surprise when their eyes met. “I didn’t know you were still here.”

“Raven told me to stay after closing. Apparently she wants me to see something.”

“Does she?” Clarke asked, turning to look at her best friend with a deep frown.

“What? Lexa’s cool—”

“—that’s not the point and you know it—”

“—I can leave,” Lexa cut in, swallowing hard. “I can just go.”

“What, no! No, don’t go,” Clarke said quickly, holding up her hands. Her cheeks were flaming and she looked down at the ground. “I just mean. You should stay. Really.” An awkward silence followed her outburst, finally broken by an amused snort from Octavia.

“So once a week,” she explained, shooting Raven a knowing look, “we stay a little later, have a few beers, and just chat. Clarke says it’s to keep up employee morale, but the truth is, we’re her only friends and this is the only opportunity she has to be social.”

“Wow, thanks Octavia,” Clarke deadpanned.

“I try,” Octavia said with a grin. “The point is, this is supposed to be fun.” Lexa smiled slightly as Lincoln handed her a beer.

“So what do you do anyway? If you can afford to spend so much at such a dump,” Raven asked her, ignoring Clarke’s splutter of indignation.

“Well, I’m a writer.”

“Published?”

“Yeah, a few things. Nothing impressive.”

“I thought writers were poor,” Octavia mused aloud, and Lexa laughed, unable to help it.

“Well I do other stuff too. Make ends meet and all.”

“And what made you want to be a writer?” Raven asked, causing Lexa to raise her eyebrows.

“Is this an interrogation?”

“No, but if it makes you feel better, I could tell you something first. Clarke dropped out of med school for me, after I got into my accident.” She pointed to her knee brace, shrugging and cutting off Lexa before she even knew what to say and not allowing Clarke get out her protests. “It’s not a big deal, really. Octavia?”

“Okay, uh. Lincoln and I have been dating for two years. We started working here little more than a year ago.” Lincoln took a long sip of his beer and wrapped an arm around Octavia’s shoulders, looking down at her in a disgustingly sweet manner that made Lexa want to turn away.

“Octavia’s a semester away from getting her degree at the local college,” Lincoln added. 

“She’ll finally go off and get a job that deserves her,” Clarke said, smiling almost proudly. “A job that doesn’t pay minimum wage.”

“Yeah, but how many of those jobs have a beer night once a week?”

“So Lexa?” Raven asked. “Why write?”

“I don’t know,” she said slowly, preoccupying herself with picking at the beer bottle’s label. She didn’t want to meet anyone’s eyes. “It’s so late,” she said, not at all smoothly. “I should really get going.”

**Two months, three weeks, and four days earlier…**

There was a response on the board, with the newer handwriting, the small neat one. A small picture once again accompanied it:

_Are you claiming there’s more to life than pain and loss?_

The picture was of a setting sun. And once again, Lexa found it appropriate. She didn’t want to answer (she didn’t know what to say) but she found herself writing something beneath the sunset when no one was looking.

_I’m claiming that there should be, even if there isn’t. I’m claiming that I’m tired. So very tired of hurting._

**Two months, three weeks, and two days earlier…**

“You’re an irregular regular,” Clarke said, sliding into the chair across from Lexa. Her hair—which was normally pulled back in a messy bun—was down, and she was fiddling with the ends as she smiled tentatively at Lexa. “I never know when you’re going to come in.”

“I like writing here. It’s easier to show up whenever I’m done with work so I can waste as much time as I’d like.” Clarke nodded, looking down at the table, biting her lip.

“I looked you up,” she admitted in a quiet voice. “I wanted to read your books. But I only know your first name, and nothing came up.”

“I write under a pseudonym.”

“Well, that would explain it.”

“Why do you want to read my books?”

“I don’t know. You seem like someone who’d write about something interesting.”

“You can tell that just by looking at me?”

“Call it a gut thing.”

“And if I told you I wrote nonfiction?”

“I’d be horrified, and bored, but I’d read it anyway.”

“And why’s that?”

“Don’t they say writers leave a part of themselves in their work? I just want to get to know you.” Lexa actually felt herself smile at that, her neck and cheeks heating up without her really understanding why.

“I think it’d be easier to just talk to me, really.”

“You don’t leave a part of yourself in your work?”

“I make it a point not to. Do you leave a part of yourself in your paintings?”

“Always. Not intentionally. But yeah.” When Lexa merely stared at her, Clarke leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table. “I want people to feel something when they see my work, and to do that, I have to feel something when I make it. And if I feel something, I’m leaving a part of me behind.”

“Doesn’t that make you feel…too open? Vulnerable?”

“I don’t know, I never thought of it that way. It’s more this sense that there would always be a part of me, you know? That I would have made some sort of dent in an inflexible universe.” She tilted her head to the side as she studied Lexa, the tentative smile gone and replaced by something wider, something more sincere. “Is that how you see your writing? As leaving yourself too vulnerable?”

“No. Because I’m separate from my writing.”

“Then why do you do it? Why write?”

“I always made up stories. It seemed natural to write them down.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Lexa confirmed, nodding carefully. Clarke grinned as she got to her feet, something in her eyes that Lexa couldn’t make out—couldn’t understand.

“I thought you said you wrote nonfiction.” She was gone before Lexa even had the chance to process her comment.

**Two months, two weeks, and six days earlier…**

“If you won’t tell us _why_ you started writing, at least tell us _when_ ,” Raven said, pulling up a chair and sitting down.

“You tell me what’s going on with Clarke and the hushed phone calls.”

“Jealous, Lexa?”

“Curious.” Raven snorted, her eyes narrowing in suspicion, but she nodded anyway.

“We’re being bullied.”

“Excuse me?”

“Have you ever heard of Cage Wallace?”

“Sure, the rich guy who owns half the city.”

“That’s the one. So a few years back, he bought most of this block. Wanted to pour money into the area, fix it up. But it’s a residential area, and I guess he felt it wasn’t worth it, so when Clarke was looking for a place to open up a café, she managed to get this for practically a steal. Wallace was _glad_ to practically give it away.”

“So what happened?”

“This area boomed. And now, Cage Wallace wants to build a shopping center, but he can’t because of—”

“—Clarke,” Lexa finished for her, nodding. “So when you say you’re being bullied…?”

“I mean literally bullied. Weather Corp has top-notch lawyers working for them. They’re trying to scare us into selling, but Clarke’s stubborn. Bellamy is trying to help, he’s a great lawyer, but he’s no match for their money and talent.”

“Do I hear you making fun of my brother again?” Octavia shouted from behind the counter. Raven groaned.

“I wouldn’t _dare_ ,” she called, rolling her eyes as she turned back to Lexa. “Long story short: Clarke thinks we’ll be shut down. Bribed government officials, a loophole of some sort, losing customers. There’s a lot that could go wrong.”

“So she’s worried.”

“Yeah. But you make her smile.”

“Excuse me?”

“What, you think no one’s noticed? You’re both so transparent.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh huh, sure. Now tell me. When did you start writing?”

“High school. Specifically, my junior year.”

“What was your first story about?” Lexa frowned, but after a few seconds of silence, she answered honestly.

“It was about the heart.” Raven stared at her as if waiting for an explanation, but when none came she just grinned.

“Well. I’d like to read it sometime.” Lexa was spared answering by Clarke’s sudden appearance. Her hair was back in its normal bun, but her eyes were alight, focused on Lexa even though she spoke to Raven.

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“I don’t know, do I, boss?”

“Raven.”

“Clarke,” Raven muttered, but she got to her feet with a theatrical sigh, and took a step back. “Like I said,” she told Lexa, a smug look on her face. “Transparent.”

“What was that about?” Clarke asked, sitting at the seat Raven just vacated.

“I have no idea. She was asking about my first story.”

“So you’ll talk to her about your stories but not me?”

“Are you serious, you really want to know?” Clarke nodded eagerly, her eyes not once leaving Lexa’s. It made it a little hard to think. “My next door neighbor had a daughter my age,” she said slowly, her heart thudding, wondering why she was lying. “Her name was Tris, and she was really ill. To cheer her up whenever I was forced to spend time with her, I’d make up stories. About all sorts of things.” It was Lexa who broke the eye contact, Lexa who stared at her hands, Lexa who suddenly felt her throat constrict. “She passed away when I was seventeen, and so I wrote down the story she liked best. And I just…never stopped.” She looked up when she got nothing but silence in return, and instead of a sad smile or understanding look, Clarke had turned her head away. “Not the sappy thing you were expecting, right?”

“No, not at all,” she said, quickly wiping her cheeks before turning back to Lexa. “I’m sorry I made you tell me about that.”

“It’s fine. It was a while ago.”

“But you’re sad.” Lexa bit her lip, trying hard to remain silent, but once again, her words tumbled out of her as she looked into Clarke’s eyes. Once again, she had no control over what she said.

“Yeah. I’m sad.”

**__ **

**_ Four months, one week, and four days earlier… _ **

_I think this will be the last letter I write to you._

_It’s not because I’m better, though I suppose in a lot of ways, I am better. It’s just that…I don’t want to carry you with me wherever I go anymore. I’m not strong enough._

_My therapist, he’s all right, you know? He’s kind, patient, and doesn’t get angry, no matter what kind of words I throw at him. He says that it’s all right to feel angry, that I’m entitled to my feelings. That I feel what I feel, and there’s no reason to invalidate myself. And you know, I didn’t realize it, but I am angry. Weird, right? Because what would I be angry with? Angry with you, with me, with the world, with the universe?_

_You were it for me, did you know that? I loved you so much that it was scary. You were the one I was able to talk to, the one I confided in—about my fears, my worries, my hopes, my dreams. And when you left me, I thought it was my fault. I thought I scared you, that somehow, the strength of my feelings was what drove you away. I hated you, hated that I loved you._

_You and I, we had years together. History. I was there when you broke down because you thought you wouldn’t be able to pass the course necessary to graduate. I was there when you broke your arm and needed to go to the emergency room. I was there when you stared up at the night sky and admitted you never thought you were good enough for the things you aimed for. I was there, Costia. And I’m angry, I’m angry that you threw it all away without a word, that you left without explanation, that the best you could do was shake your head as you grabbed your things and walked out the door._

_I’m angry, because I deserved better. Even if you didn’t love me like I loved you. Even if you never cared. I still deserved better than total silence. I’m angry because I can’t even feel angry. Because I want answers from you I can never get, a closure that’ll never happen. I’m angry because I don’t know how to be angry at someone who left me and then—_

_You broke my heart. I love you, I hate you, and I’m done carrying you. I’m so sorry, but I have to let go._

**Two months, two weeks, and five days earlier…**

She put out the cigarette with a little guilty twist in her chest when she heard the door open behind her, somehow still conditioned to worry about Anya finding her smoking, even though she was an adult and it’d been a long time since Anya had expressed any disappointment with her lifestyle choices (she pretended she didn’t know when _that_ wall had been put up). 

“You said you came out here for some air, not to smoke.” Lexa turned around, grinning weakly—and with a little bit of relief—at the small, teasing smile Clarke was giving her.

“Sorry, I hope you don’t mind. Anya and your friends in one place…it’s just a little intense.” Clarke laughed, coming over to sit on the step below Lexa, both of them looking into the alley behind the coffee shop, a truly dark and terrifying place, littered with old coffee cups, paper bags from the grocery store across the street, and an identifiable sludge near the dumpster in the back. 

“I don’t mind. You should know, I don’t allow just anyone to use the employee entrance,” Clarke joked, gesturing to the door behind them. “But you know smoking’s bad for you, right? I have to say that. As a former student physician.”

“It’s a terrible habit.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve no idea why anyone does it, really.”

“I have no clue, either.”

“Well, there you go kids! Your PSA of the day, courtesy of Dr. Clarke and her sidekick, Lexa the Smoker.” Clarke laughed, and Lexa felt…she didn’t know what she felt. She just knew it was similar to the feeling the special coffee gave her, the feeling the café gave her.

“What did my friends do?” she suddenly asked, and Lexa was so shocked by the abrupt seriousness that she found herself answering honestly.

“Just asking about my first story again, and Anya’s here too...”

“So you can’t lie?” Lexa’s eyes widened and she stared at Clarke until the blonde smiled reassuringly, patting Lexa’s hand, igniting her skin, sending wave after wave of harsh and heart shattering signals from her nerve endings to her brain. “I mentioned Tris and Anya said she was surprised you talked about your sister at all, that you normally don’t.” Clarke pulled her hand away, and Lexa’s brain—no longer overwhelmed by the intensity of the signals it was getting—cleared enough that she was able to give a logical and rational response. “It’s okay, really. I can understand why you’d—”

“She was twelve when she died.” It took her a minute to realize that she’d actually said those words, a minute to realize that she was in a very precarious position: Clarke’s touch must have short-circuited something, because for the first time in a very long time, Lexa was being honest. She clenched her jaw, determined not to say another word, but it was to no avail—the words tumbled out easily, as if they’d been on the tip of her tongue all along. “She was sick all the time, couldn’t go to school, bed-ridden really.” Lexa bit her lip, turned away from Clarke’s deep blue eyes—eyes that suggested she understood, that she knew exactly what Lexa was talking about—but still the words came. “I wasn’t lying about making up stories for her, I did. All the time. Stories about school, about dragons, about small little girls who escaped their prisons. I’d tell her stories every night before bed, but she could never fall asleep to them. Instead, she’d press her fingers to her wrist and count the beats of her heart until she fell asleep.” Lexa let out a shaky laugh, staring down at her hands. “I never understood it.”

“What happened?” Clarke whispered, and had anyone else asked, Lexa would’ve told them to mind their own business, but her tone was different—it was soft, compassionate, tender. She wasn’t demanding for more information, she was gently prodding Lexa, helping her get out the words she’d never been able to expel from her lungs, words that had slowly and effectively been suffocating her for over a decade.

“Her heart failed,” Lexa said dispassionately, closing her eyes. “At her funeral, my mom mentioned how she’d always take her pulse, and she said it was because Tris found comfort in the constancy, in the sturdiness, of her heart.” Lexa snorted derisively, and she felt something grip her hand, felt something lean on her shoulder, but she ignored it, eyes still tightly shut. “It was the one thing that had never let her down, the one thing that gave her a sense of control and order. And then it failed her too. Isn’t that rich? That the one thing a twelve year old girl could always count on and it…it just _abandoned_ her like that.” She swallowed hard, feeling a burning behind her closed eyes. “She was literally heartbroken,” she murmured, clenching her fists. 

“And that was what your first story was about,” Clarke stated. Lexa opened her eyes, noticing Clarke’s grip on her hand, noticing that Clarke had leaned into her, her head on Lexa shoulder, as if offering all the comfort she could give. And had it been anyone else, Lexa would have stiffened, would have pushed away the warmth and comfort. But here, now, sitting on the cold, dank steps leading up to the employee entrance of Clarke’s coffee shop, Lexa leaned into it, wordlessly asking for more, even if she wasn’t quite sure what was being offered in the first place.

“Yeah, that was what my story was about.”

“I’m sorry about your sister.”

“I do it too now. Count the beats until I fall asleep.”

“Does that help you?”

“Sometimes I’d swear it’s not beating at all.” She expected the former student physician to contradict her, explain the science, how such a thing wasn’t possible, but Clarke surprised her.

“What about now? Is it beating now?” Lexa held out her free hand, and Clarke pressed the tips of her fingers to the pulse point at her wrist, nodding. “It’s beating.” Lexa studied her face for a long moment and then nodded herself.

(And that was when it started.)

_XXXXX_

**Two months, two weeks, and four days earlier…**

She had been religious.

No. That wasn’t the right word; she was never _religious_ , but there’d always been a sense that there was…more. She had never been spiritual or devout or a “believer,” but she’d been _something_. 

Whatever it was, though, whatever she’d once been or felt, it’d long been lost to her. (She thought it might have fled when Tris’s heart failed her, or maybe perhaps it was losing someone else she loved many years later that was the final nail in the coffin. Either way, she was glad it was gone. Really.) Yet, it made a soaring and roaring comeback as she stepped into the coffee shop and was met immediately by Clarke’s smile. The coffee made her feel warm and Clarke’s smile made her feel calm, and it was enough for her—enough of a change, enough of a respite, enough of a painkiller—that she smiled right back and didn’t question it, didn’t dare risk it by overthinking it.

(Her broken heart thudded peacefully in her chest and breathing came more effortlessly and Lexa just let things be, terrified it would be taken from her once more.)

(She’d been glad when it was gone, but now that she had it back, she resolved to cling to it.)

(She didn’t question _why_ she wanted it to stay either.)

//

“I see you’re writing again,” Anya said, as she walked into Lexa’s apartment (as uninvited as ever) and sat down next to Lexa on the couch, picking up a few pieces of paper, her eyes roving over them critically.

“Don’t make a big deal of this,” Lexa warned, putting her pen down, knowing there was no way she’d get to work with Anya around.

“Me? Why I never.” She paused briefly, not looking away from the papers. “I’m glad, Lexa, it’s about time. But…”

“But what?”

“Be careful, okay?” With Anya’s eyes still determinedly fixed on the papers in her hand, there was no mistaking what she was talking about—her nervousness and indirectness spoke volumes.

“You were never one not to speak your mind.”

“You’re vulnerable,” Anya muttered, finally meeting Lexa’s eyes. “I’m just saying, I’m glad the girl is getting you to write again, but don’t put all your hopes on her.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you? Lexa, you’ve done this before. You know you have.”

“We’re not talking about Costia.”

“No, but it’s the same thing, and you know it. You give everything, you get hurt, and I’m afraid one of these days you won’t be able to come back from it.”

“It’s not the same. I’m being careful.”

“You told her about Tris.”

“I’ve never hidden Tris from anyone!”

“But you also don’t talk about her to people you barely know.” Lexa didn’t respond, she just looked down, and Anya took it as assent. “I love you, Lexa,” she said softly, forcing Lexa to meet her gaze again, “and it’s my job to protect you, even if it’s from yourself.” Lexa blinked rapidly, hating the pressure that built up behind her eyelids and in her throat from the effort it was taking not to cry. She shifted so that she was leaning on Anya, her head resting on her best friend’s shoulder.

“I feel better there,” she admitted quietly. Anya’s arms wrapped around her, and for a second, Lexa allowed herself to feel comforted.

“I know, Lexa.”

“What do I do?”

“Whatever you want. Just think before you put your career on the line because of the girl, yeah?”

“She’s not why I write.”

“Good.”

“She’s not like Costia,” Lexa said bracingly, but Anya didn’t react like she expected. Rather than continue arguing her point, she just tightened her embrace and nodded.

“I hope not, kiddo.”

**Two months, two weeks, and three days earlier…**

Raven grinned when Lexa walked into the coffee shop, then immediately gave her an apologetic frown.

“Clarke’s not here.”

“I’m not here for Clarke.”

“Sure you’re not,” Raven said, her grin back, winking exaggeratedly. She limped over to Lexa and pushed her into a chair, settling down across from her with a slightly pained expression. “It hurts sometimes,” she offered in explanation, rubbing her leg right above the knee brace. “It’s not a big deal.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I can see the look in your eyes. You feel sorry for me.”

“Shouldn’t I?”

“I’m not something to be pitied,” Raven said harshly, now looking up, all the mirth from before vanishing from her eyes. Lexa held up her hands in surrender, waiting until the glare dissipated before she leaned forward, averting her eyes.

“I don’t pity you, Raven,” she said bracingly, pausing long enough to chance a look at Raven. “But I also don’t want you to be in pain. And for that, I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“Well no. But you’re my friend.” At that, Raven’s eyes widened, and she also leaned forward, her grin back.

“Friends, are we?” she asked, her smile far too gleeful for Lexa’s comfort.

“I misspoke,” she said quickly.

“Oh no, you can’t take that back now.” Raven tapped Lexa’s forehead, then leaned back, her arms crossed over her chest. “I’m glad we’re friends, because I have something to admit.” Lexa pursed her lips, but this just made Raven grin wider. “I’m totally rooting for you and Clarke.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh come on! The lingering looks, the smiles, the secret talk behind the shop? You two _like_ each other.”

“You’re mistaken.”

“Of course I am.” She got to her feet, and Lexa pointedly ignored the swallow of pain she unsuccessfully tried to hide. “But I also saw the disappointed look on your face when I told you Clarke wasn’t here.”

“I’m here for the coffee, not Clarke.”

“You may want to practice that line in front of a mirror, Lexa,” Raven offered. “She’ll be by later. In case that’s pertinent information.” Lexa ignored the comment.

(She didn’t go back later.)

(She wasn’t sure why it felt so wrong.)

**Two months, two weeks, and two days earlier…**

There was something new next to her response on the bulletin board, beneath it, a single flower bud, so real that Lexa was sure if she waited long enough, it’d bloom before her very eyes. 

_Are you so tired of hurting you won’t even continue our bulletin board chat?_

Grinning, Lexa sipped at her coffee as she tore out a page from her notebook and deliberated what she should write—if she should even write back at all. There was a sense in the very back of her mind—the thing that used to take the wheel, the thing that kept her sane over a year ago, the thing that prevented her from going down a path she knew she shouldn’t—that she should exercise caution, restraint, care. But she was tired of living afraid, tired of being so careful only to have her heart broken anyway, only to suffer regardless.

(Caution hadn’t protected her, and in retaliation she threw caution to the wind.)

She grinned when she pinned up her response on the board, taking care to ensure no one was watching her. And for the first time in quite a while, Lexa was excited.

**Two months, two weeks, and one day earlier…**

“Is it a thing now?” Octavia asked, her eyes narrowing as she handed Lexa her coffee. She leaned forward on the counter, her legs actually coming off the floor. “Because once it becomes a thing, we’ll be known for it, and I’ll never live down working at the coffee shop known for the stupid bulletin board debate.”

“Bulletin board banter, more like,” Lincoln said, wiping his hands on his apron and opening the door that led to the washing station with his hip.

“He likes his alliteration, the big nerd,” Octavia informed Lexa fondly, shrugging as she pulled herself off the counter and instead leaned back against the shelves behind her. “You think you’ll stick around today? Clarke’s been in a pissy mood since she’s missed you these past few days.”

“You and Raven aren’t subtle at all.”

“Who said we were trying to be subtle?” Octavia asked, smiling innocently when Lexa just rolled her eyes. “Oh come on. Like it’d kill you to wait ten minutes and just say hi to Clarke before you left. Her pissy mood affects all our work, Lexa. Trust me. It’s a major downer.”

“Tell her about the plan!” Raven called from her station, furiously making drinks and taking orders while Octavia casually leaned back, not looking bothered at all.

“Right, the plan. Listen. At the end of the week, Clarke’s going to close early in order to do math or whatever, inventory, things like that.”

“Skip to the important part,” Raven hissed, rolling her eyes and gratefully accepting Lincoln’s help as he reappeared behind the counter, carrying a large tray of clean cups in his hands.

“God, Raven, a little patience please?” Octavia shook her head, gave Lexa a look, then continued on. “Anyway, normally she just stays here alone until she’s done. But we think you should be here with her.”

“And why would I do that?”

“To keep Clarke company, of course.”

“I told them they should just stay out of it, Lexa,” Lincoln said sympathetically, giving his girlfriend a disappointed shake of his head. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“Of course she does!” Raven handed Lincoln the cup she was holding and she rushed over to Lexa, grabbing her wrists, her grip tight and insistent. “Why squander an opportunity like this? You like Clarke, right?”

“She’s nice,” Lexa agreed, surprised when this made Octavia snort with pleasure.

“That’s Lexa speak right there,” she said gleefully, finally moving over to help Lincoln with the customers. Lexa assumed Raven would follow her, but instead, her grip remained tight around Lexa’s wrists, her expression almost agitated. 

“Just…show up, okay? Write, read, I don’t care. At the very least you’ll get free coffee out of it.”

“Why are you so insistent I do this?”

“Because you make Clarke smile, and that’s not an easy thing to do.” This was the second time Raven had made this particular comment, and the first time that Lexa actually wondered if there was more to Clarke than met the eye. Perhaps, like her, Clarke hadn’t had anything to smile about lately. Perhaps, like Anya, Raven was so desperate to get her friend back that she’d ask a stranger for help.

“Okay.” The word came out of her mouth without her consent, but there was a tightness in her chest that eased a little at the utterance, and she was so relieved by the minute reprieve that she didn’t take her acceptance back.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, sure.” Raven grinned wide, and she shocked Lexa by pulling her into a tight hug, arms hanging listlessly at her sides, feeling vaguely warm.

**Two months and six days earlier…**

Going through with Raven’s plan and spending time with Clarke, she learned, was nothing like she imagined. (Not that she imagined it…at least, not really. She couldn’t help the daydreams, the small smile that tugged at her lips when she wasn’t paying attention. But it meant nothing. Of that, she was sure.)

She’d thought it would be quiet, with short glances, maybe an even shorter conversation—stilted and awkward because Lexa was still trying to find her legs and Clarke probably had been running from the second she could walk. She thought she’d read or write the entire time, and that Clarke would work.

Instead, they gravitated towards one another. Clarke leaned over Lexa’s shoulder to read what she’d written, and Lexa would move to the side to give her more room, inviting her closer. Instead, Lexa helped Clarke with the calculations and inventory, perhaps shifting the chairs they sat on too close together (just a little closer than was strictly necessary).

Instead, they turned on the radio and Clarke sang along to every song, inviting a chuckling and mortified Lexa to join in.

Instead, they drank coffee and Clarke grabbed Lexa by the hand and dragged her around the shop, pointing to various paintings, explaining what she’d felt or thought as she worked on them.

(Instead, Lexa found her eyes glued to Clarke, feeling the warmth the coffee gave her and realizing with a sinking feeling that perhaps what she said to Anya wasn’t altogether true: because she stared at Clarke and she wanted nothing more than to write, nothing more than to string word after word together in a futile attempt to describe the indescribable, to paint with words what Clarke so effortlessly painted on canvas.)

But it didn’t stop there.

In the following days, Lexa found herself going to the coffee shop less for the coffee and the time to write and more for Clarke. She had no idea how to explain it, not to Anya and barely even to herself. At first, she’d convinced herself that Clarke was a doctor (or close to it anyway), that she knew how to heal people. But as the days dragged on, it became more and more difficult to think that way (mostly because she just didn’t _want_ to think that way—didn’t want to reduce Clarke to nothing more than a healer).

And if Clarke wasn’t enough, the lure of a response on the bulletin board dragged Lexa to the coffee shop each day, anxious and excited to read whatever response had been left for her. (They came daily now, long and always accompanied by a drawing, and the crowd it drew in merely grew each day.)

In fact, she was just finishing up her latest response to her bulletin board stranger when she felt a tap on her shoulder and Clarke was sliding into the chair across from her, a knowing look on her face.

“So?” she asked, attempting (and failing) to quell her grin.

“So what?”

“What’d you think?”

“You know what I think.”

“But I want to hear you say it.”

“Fine. You were right. Does that make you feel better, Clarke?” Clarke grinned widely, nodding and leaning forward, so close that Lexa could feel her hot breath fan over her face as she spoke.

“I told you not to bet against me.”

“I’d never dream of it.”

“Except when it comes to Raven and Octavia, apparently,” she said, raising her eyebrows. Lexa laughed, closing her notebook, her bulletin board stranger all but forgotten.

“I’ll have you know, I betted against them, not you. I had every confidence.”

“Sure you did, that’s why you took a half hour cigarette break.”

“I smoke when I’m confident.”

“Or anxious,” she said pointedly, rolling her eyes. “How much did you win?”

“Fifty, off of each of them.” Clarke whistled appreciatively then held out her hand. “What?”

“My cut.”

“You don’t get a cut just because I bet on you.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t the one who had all the regulars orders memorized. I did all the work, I deserve at least half the cash.”

“If I spent nearly as much time as you did in here, I’d have the orders memorized too.”

“You spend so much time here already,” Clarke challenged, sitting up straight, “so tell me. That man over there, with the old cap and the blue t-shirt. What’s his order?” Lexa turned to where Clarke was pointing, and she narrowed her eyes, vaguely recognizing the man.

“He’s not a regular.”

“Oh but he is,” Clarke said, sounding far too pleased for Lexa’s comfort. “Every Thursday at four, he’s like freaking clockwork. He buys a hot chocolate, sits there for half an hour, then leaves.” She leaned forward again, motioning for Lexa to do the same. When she did, she immediately regretted it; being this close to Clarke was doing strange things to her chest, and she wasn’t quite sure she liked it. “I have a theory he’s waiting for someone. Probably a girlfriend. He’s heartbroken.”

“You can tell that just by when he comes in, what he orders, and what he does?”

“Yep.”

“Fine. Then what about me? What do you see about me?” Clarke studied her, blue eyes drinking her in, and Lexa shifted uncomfortably in her seat, suddenly regretting the challenge.

“You’re sad,” Clarke said finally, long after the pause had become awkward and stifling. “But that’s not news, everyone knows you’re sad. You’re also restless, stuck and you want out, but you don’t know how to escape whatever it is you’re in.”

“And how can you tell?” Lexa asked, her voice just slightly off.

“You never come in at the same time. You never stay the same amount of time. And you’re the only one who bothered to become friends with Raven, Octavia, and Lincoln. I’d say you’re looking for something.”

“And you.”

“What?”

“I became friends with you too.” She had no idea why she said it, why it came out so softly, so vulnerably, but it was out, and Clarke’s eyes softened, her lips formed a smile, and her hand twitched, like she was about to reach out and grasp Lexa’s.

“Very true. So Lexa,” she continued, her eyes still oh so soft, her expression unguarded for the first time since Lexa walked into the coffee shop and met her, “have you found what you’re looking for?” Lexa coughed, using it as an excuse to turn her head and break the eye contact she suddenly considered so unsettling. And yet, she found herself saying the words she was trying so hard to keep in.

“I come here everyday, don’t I?” This time, when Clarke’s hand twitched, it was Lexa who reached out to briefly give it a squeeze before pulling away, her brain reeling, still not quite sure if she’d done what she thought she just did. Before she could berate herself, however, Clarke spoke up, her tone markedly different from before—serious, deep, strained.

“So what’re you going to do when we’re shut down?” she asked. And to that, Lexa had no answer.

**One month, three weeks, and five days earlier…**

_I think it’s highly unlikely that everyone falls in love the same way. Is it so hard to believe that our souls are just as diverse as our languages and cultures? Is it such a stretch to think that our hearts follow their own specific beat, unique to each of us?_

_When I fell in love (the only time I’ve ever fallen in love), it was a rush, it was quick, and irrevocable and earth shattering. For so long I’d felt my I was only around because of a series of biological mutations, nothing more than an accident, a mistake. But when she came along, with her dark eyes and hair smelling of roses, my perspective shifted—I existed for her, I was living and breathing for her. All the biological mutations that led to me were for the sole purpose of loving her, because I believed with all my heart that was what I was made for._

_But I don’t think she was ever the same. She was the type of person who loved freely and openly. Oh, she was devoted and true, but her heart didn’t beat for me the way mine beat for her. Her love was so different from mine, so impossible to contain within a single person. Her love went out in all directions, used it to fuel her passions, her ambitions, her beliefs. But my love, my love burned me from the inside out, contained within a chest that wasn’t made to hold such a prisoner._

_You said that we all fall in love again and again, you said that it’s a endless and boring cycle, you said you were tired of the same old thing only to have it blow up in your face. But if love truly does exist, if this inexplicable and indescribable emotion is actually something we’re capable of feeling, then I think you just haven’t felt it yet. I don’t think poets and writers and artists would find so many different ways of describing it if it was really as boring as you say._

_Your heart is different—I fell in love and don’t know how to fall out of it, and you’ve yet to fall at all. Do me a favor, though. When you meet the person you’ve been made for (and you will, it just takes time), tell me how you fall in love. I’m sure it will be beautiful._

**One month, three weeks, and four days earlier…**

_This is what I know to be true:_

_You’re the kind of person who is grounded. You’re careful with your heart, you’d never dare wear it on your sleeve. But me? I’m reckless, I used to think it was a show of bravery, of courage, that I was willing to be so open._

_If I fall in love, you’ll be the first to know, but for now, I’m practicing keeping my heart protected. I don’t have it in me to be brave anymore._

**One month, three weeks, and two days earlier…**

Clarke grinned at her as she sipped the hot chocolate, careful to ensure her frown remained firmly in place.

“Shut up and admit you like it,” Clarke laughed when Lexa put the cup down, pursing her lips a little and scrunching her nose.

“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” she pointed out, raising an eyebrow and narrowing her eyes. Clarke laughed again, reaching out with a napkin and wiping away a bit of the chocolaty foam left on her upper lip. (She briefly wondered if perhaps Clarke could sense that that simple gesture left her heart racing for no discernable reason.)

“ _Au contraire_ ,” Clarke said, pulling away, taking her warmth and Lexa’s rapidly beating heart with her. (She took a deep breath, settling the nerves that came from nowhere, unsure why she was reacting this way.) “I know _exactly_ what you’re thinking.”

“And what’s that?”

“Firstly, my hot chocolate is amazing.” She stretched out the final word, her voice dropping an octave, the blue in her eyes a lot more noticeable than usual. And Lexa’s hands suddenly felt clammy and gross. She wiped them on her pants, trying to act casual, normal, but it was impossible. “Secondly, you’re a secret fan of the bulletin board banter.” At that, Lexa’s heart rate slowed, and she allowed herself a moment to roll her eyes. Lincoln’s alliterative term for the conversation stuck, and one afternoon, Lexa walked in to see that Raven had put up a banner above the hastily written notes, bright golden letters displaying: _Home of the Bulletin Board Banter_. Apparently, since the conversations were so well liked, Clarke had grudgingly agreed to use it to their advantage and draw in more customers. (Mostly, Lexa just thought Raven wanted a chance to put up and banner and Clarke couldn’t think of a reason to say no.) “And thirdly,” Clarke continued, seemingly oblivious to Lexa’s distracted thoughts, “I made the hot chocolate with _you_ in mind. So of course you liked it.”

“With me in mind?” Lexa repeatedly, feeling dazed.

“Well,” Clarke cleared her throat, shrugging, “you like cinnamon. And vanilla. And those are my secret ingredients.”

“How did—”

“The cinnamon flavored gum you chew. And sometimes you ask for vanilla syrup in your coffee. Though, between you and me, my special already has a dash of vanilla.”

“You pay attention to all your customers like that, or am I just special?” It came out flirty. She had no idea why it came out flirty. It wasn’t supposed to come out flirty. But when Clarke grinned in response, her blue eyes glinting, Lexa found that she didn’t quite care.

“You’re special,” she replied easily, and Lexa couldn’t help it, a smile tugged at her lips.

“I do like the bulletin board banter,” she said, mostly because she felt flustered, didn’t know why, and wanted time to figure out the newness, the fluttering in her chest. “It’s interesting.”

“They’re going on about soulmates now,” she said, looking just a tad bit skeptical. “Did you see it?” Of course she had; she’d just finished writing a reply. But instead of saying so to Clarke, she shrugged noncommittally. “Do you believe in soulmates?”

“I used to.” Clarke frowned slightly, a worried crease appearing between her brows, and in order to stop her from questioning Lexa on things she didn’t want to discuss, she cleared her throat and spoke on. “What about you?” 

“I don’t know. I think it’s a cool thought. Raven says we have more than one. That it can be platonic or romantic or whatever. She says a soulmate is a part of your _karass_ if they’re platonic, _duprass_ if they’re romantic.”

“She a Bokononist?” Lexa asked wryly, and Clarke just laughed.

“But see,” she said once her laughter died down, a serious look suddenly on her face, “what if someone is your soulmate but you’re not theirs?”

“I think you’re missing the point of soulmates, Clarke,” she joked weakly, swallowing hard, her heart rate sky rocketing, though this time she knew exactly why: Clarke was treading dangerously close to a topic Lexa didn’t want to talk about. Clarke smiled, but seemed determined to forge on.

“Hear me out. What if you know for a fact that this person is it for you, the absolute end, the one you’re _built_ for, and they just don’t feel the same way? Or leave you? That nothing you feel for anyone else would ever—”

“I get it, Clarke,” Lexa interrupted harshly, ignoring the surprised look on Clarke’s face. “What’s your point?” She tried hard not to think about Costia, really she did, but it was to no avail. In her mind’s eye, Costia’s flight kept playing on a loop.

“Just…can you imagine how that would feel?” she asked, something knowing and vaguely melancholy about her look, something dark and frightening in her eyes. “What happens after that?” There was something truly searching, even desperate, in her question, but even so, Lexa waited a long moment before replying.

“You fall apart,” she finally said. “And then you learn to live with it.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Clarke said, her shoulders sagging. “It’s why I’d rather soulmates didn’t exist at all.” She sat there for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, but a loud cry from behind the counter made her sit up in shock, blue eyes wide. “Oh, shit. I have to get back to work. See you tomorrow, Lexa?” It was asked softly, vulnerably, so different from the Clarke Lexa was used to.

And unbelievingly, though her heart was still racing, though her palms were clammy, though something in the back of her mind was screaming to save herself and get the hell out, Lexa nodded.

**One month, two weeks, and one day earlier…**

“Indra does not let up,” Anya complained as she collapsed onto Lexa’s couch, grinning when Lexa shot her a glare. “Are you ever planning on coming back to the firm?”

“You were the one who wanted me to get back to my real job.”

“Yeah, but without you, Indra has no one to complain to, which means she doesn’t get her daily venting sessions, which means she takes out her anger on me.”

“You are the junior partner.”

“No, _you’re_ the junior partner.”

“I’m basically the secretary, Anya.”

“Because of Costia,” Anya hissed, but when she caught sight of Lexa’s stricken look, she held up her hands. “Oh shit, I’m sorry. You don’t want to talk about it.”

“She had nothing to do with what happened. I _ruined_ Indra’s case, I was lucky she kept me on at all.”

“You don’t want to talk about it,” Anya repeated, something steely in her gaze. “Anyway. Since you haven’t been around, it falls to me to tell you about our new client.”

“Who’s the new client?”

“Cage fucking Wallace. It’s an easy enough case. We’re this close, Lexa,” she held up her hands, only an inch of space between them, “to finally getting everything we’ve worked so hard for.” Lexa laughed, sitting down next to her best friend, unable to help the slight roll of her eyes.

“Just order your pizza and drink my beer. I know that’s what you’re really here for anyway.” Anya snorted, picking up the remote and flipping through the channels.

“Please, you wouldn’t know what to do without me.”

**One month, one week, and five days earlier…**

_~~Sometimes I wish I could meet you.~~ _

_~~I think that you and I would be friends.~~ _

_~~I feel like I can trust you.~~ _

_Lately, I’ve been having trouble. I’ve met someone who makes me feel things I don’t think I’ve ever felt before, and my first thought was to confide in you, hear what you think._

_I don’t know how to describe it, except maybe that it’s anything but boring. It’s like a descent, a slow build to the inevitable landing. But sometimes, it’s like a rough and shocking somersault. Sometimes, I feel like I’m floating on air, being gently guided down. Sometimes, it’s like a rush of epinephrine, and it leaves me breathless and gasping, heart palpitating. Sometimes, it’s like dying and coming back to life, and sometimes it’s like a gentle summer breeze._

_Thoughts?_

**One month, one week, and four days earlier…**

_It sounds like you’re in love._

**One month, one week, and three days earlier…**

She didn’t smile when Clarke slid in the chair across from her. She barely looked up.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked after Lexa continued to stare at the table, not bothering to even return Clarke’s greeting. And honestly, she didn’t really have an answer. It had been raining all morning, and she thought that maybe the weather and depressed her mood, but if she was being really honest with herself, it was because her bulletin board friend had not replied, and the loss of the constancy she’d come to expect was a lot harder than she would’ve ever imagined.

"Do you know the story of Pandora?" Lexa finally asked, still not looking up from her coffee cup. She felt rather than saw Clarke's lopsided shrug, and she traced the rim of the cup with her finger, choosing her words carefully. "The story goes that the first woman was created by the gods as punishment. Epimetheus was warned by his brother Prometheus not to accept any gifts from the gods, but Pandora was beautiful, and Epimetheus ignored his brother." Lexa looked up then, grinning slightly, knowing it was insincere. Knowing it was marring her features, knowing she seemed terrifying (what with the dead eyes and lackluster heartbeat). "Pandora brought a jar with her, was warned not to open it. But curiosity got the best of her, and she released all of humanity's ills onto the world. Disease, death, devastation. Evils, you get the gist." She laughed then, humorless and empty to her own ears. "Zeus planned it like that, you see. That's the moral, you can't ever get one over Zeus."

"There was also hope."

"What?"

"In the jar, there was hope," Clarke said, her hand inching forward, as if she longed to take Lexa's, to link their fingers together.

"People say that like you should be happy about the hope."

"Shouldn't you be?"

"Think about it, Clarke. First of all, why was hope in the jar of evils? For fun? Or because the ancient Greeks realized the truth, that hope is the worst evil of all? That we were lucky Pandora closed the lid when she did. I mean, death is inevitable. So are disease and devastation, heartbreak and pain. But hope? God, hope makes it all worse. It just prolongs torture." Clarke opened her mouth, clearly about to argue, but Lexa wasn't done. She barraged on, her eyes now focused on Clarke's. "And even if we're supposed to believe that hope is the only good thing in that jar of evils, it was never released into the world. It remained imprisoned in the jar. So how does it help anyone at all?" Clarke blinked in response, then sat up straight, pulling her hand back.

"That's a cynical view."

"All this because Prometheus gave us fire," she muttered. "Somehow I don't feel like it was an even trade."

"Whether hope is imprisoned or if it's technically an evil, it doesn't matter," Clarke said, and to Lexa's ultimate shock, she leaned across the table and pressed a lingering kiss to Lexa's cheek. "The point is hope exists at all," she continued as she pulled away and sat back. Her eyes never left Clarke’s as she raised her hand to touch the heated imprint Clarke's lips left on her cheek. Her heart stammered in its cage, fluttered, pounded briefly, and then beat on. But it was different.

(And that was when it changed.)

_XXXXX_

**One month, one week, and two days earlier…**

Clarke.

She closed her eyes, attempted to even out her breathing, but she couldn’t. Instead, she turned to her side, pulling her sheets more securely over her, hiding from the offensive glare of the streetlamp right outside her bedroom window. It flickered once or twice, as if mocking her, as if berating her, as if accusing her. (For what, she didn’t quite know.)

_Clarke_.

Heaving a sigh, Lexa sat up in bed and ran her fingers through her hair in agitation, annoyed and anxious. (Was this normal, this couldn’t be normal.)

(She determinedly kept her eyes away from her alarm clock, thinking it was just a tad too pathetic that she was counting the minutes until she could start her day without having Anya breathe down her neck about ‘unhealthy habits.’)

(She tried not to think that she was also counting the minutes until she could return to the café. She was less successful in this regard.)

Perhaps, she thought, slouching slightly and resting her head in her hands, elbows propped up on her knees, this was what moving on felt like. Somehow, she’d always thought it’d be…bigger. Grander. This was quiet, was sleepless nights, was the sense that breathing came a little easier, excitement came a little quicker.

Clarke the healer. (But then, she’d already decided that wasn’t a nearly adequate enough epithet for the blonde café owner.)

Clarke the friend? (Did moving on also mean craving more? Wanting more? Did it mean she hungered and thirsted and _desired_? Did it mean food would have more taste, music would sound crisper, the air would feel fresher? Did it mean the pounding of her heart, the adrenaline in her veins, the thump in her lungs were acceptable, normal, pardonable?)

Clarke the more than friend? (Perhaps that wasn’t moving on at all. Perhaps moving on merely meant the pain that had so crippled her, the pain she had borne for so long that she’d become accustomed to its weight and texture and taste, slowly eased until it wasn’t gone, but was manageable. Perhaps, even, moving on meant casting off the shackles of the past year, of finally being able to heave in a deep breath that actually filled her lungs and sent oxygen to the furthest and smallest of cells.)

Clarke? (Or maybe, she thought, maybe moving on meant none of that. Maybe it was the realization that she’d long since learned to live without Costia, to be without Costia, and it was only until now that she was able to believe it—believe in herself. Maybe, like her bulletin board stranger, she learned to be brave and wear her heart on her sleeve, finally tired of hoarding it away and never putting it to use—a safe life, but a lonely one.) 

Yes. Just _Clarke_. (Then, none of that really mattered anyway. Because knowing her heart was coming out of hibernation, casting off its cobwebs, was one thing. The act of actually moving on was quite another.)

**One month and one week earlier…**

_Love? Please. I’m not in love. No one—no one falls in love that quickly. No. It’s not even possible._

**One month and six days earlier…**

“Seriously, Raven, if you don’t cut that out I’ll kick your ass.”

“You could try, I suppose. But you’re scrawny.”

“Raven, I’m warning you. I’ll kick your ass in front of Lexa.”

“Lexa, do you mind my humming?” When Lexa merely let out a noncommittal grunt, Octavia hissed something that sounded a lot like _traitor_ and Raven snorted. “See? You’re so touchy. You need to take a break, Octavia. Go visit the boyfriend.”

“The boyfriend is standing right here,” Lincoln said softly, wiping down the tables. The coffee shop was empty, the closed sign hanging from the door, and Octavia was already on her second beer, grinning as she handed one to Lincoln.

“Hey, don’t I get one?”

“No, because you’re an asshole.”

“They’re not usually like this,” Lincoln said, coming up to Lexa and offering his unopened beer to her. “Clarke’s just been gone all day, working with Bellamy on the Cage Wallace thing, and they’re nervous. They get agitated easily.”

“I see that,” Lexa laughed, taking the beer gratefully. “How’s all that going anyway? Clarke seems pretty sure the shop will get closed.”

“The surge in business helped,” Raven said, pushing Lincoln down in the chair next to Lexa before sitting down on the final seat at the small circular table herself. “Between the whole banter thing,” she waved towards the bulletin board, “and new regulars,” she winked at Lexa, “business has been pretty swell.”

“But?”

“But we’re hopelessly outmatched. We’ve got Bellamy and Cage Wallace has got super lawyers.”

“Hey,” Octavia called, dragging a chair over to them and flopping down next to Lincoln. “Bellamy is more than a match for the she-devils.”

“She-devils?”

“It’s Octavia’s fond term for the two lawyers representing Wallace,” Lincoln explained, chuckling lightly. “We’ve never actually met them, but she claims that only the devil’s spawn would willingly go along with something so evil.”

“Hey, no one disagreed with my assessment.”

“Do you know the firm?” Lexa asked, leaning forward. Perhaps, if she knew the firm or the lawyers, she could help—ask Anya to look into it, ask for a favor.

“Nah. Clarke and Bellamy claim that the less we know the better. Something about ‘protection.’”

“They don’t tell you anything, Octavia, because you’re liable to go attack the lawyers. I happen to know _everything_.”

“She doesn’t, she’s lying,” Lincoln said, rolling his eyes. “Clarke’s been really secretive about the whole thing. That’s how we know it’s serious.”

“But you help,” Raven said, taking a sip of Octavia’s beer, ignoring her disgusted look. “I think I’ve mentioned that before.”

“Oh right, the _look_.”

“The what?” Lexa asked, eyes widening.

“Raven and Octavia say that Clarke has a… _look_ when she’s happy,” Lincoln explained, looking just a little uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t read into it too much.”

“You’re saying she doesn’t get the _look_?” Octavia asked, frowning at her boyfriend.

“I’m saying it’s obvious Clarke’s been happier, but she doesn’t have a look.”

“Yeah, and how do you know she’s been happier?”

“She’s painting again,” Lincoln answered simply, shrugging when Raven’s mouth fell open and Octavia let out a curse, mumbling incoherently under her breath.

“Is that a big deal?” Lexa found herself asking, looking from Raven to Lincoln, confused when none of them immediately spoke up—it seemed rather out of character, if the last month or so was any indication.

“Look, Lexa, it’s not that we’re trying to hide anything from you,” Octavia began bracingly, her tone serious and apologetic, “it’s just—”

“—it’s not out story to tell, you know?” Raven finished for her, shrugging helplessly. “We’ve all had some tough times, but Clarke’s…it’s different. When she’s ready, she’ll tell you herself.”

“It’s really none of my business,” Lexa mumbled hurriedly, preoccupying herself with the unopened beer in front of her. Lincoln laughed, clapping her on the back good-naturedly.

“And that, Lexa,” he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest, “is exactly why she’ll tell you.”

**One month and five days earlier…**

_I don’t know, why can’t it be possible? Is there a time frame we all need to perfectly fit into? Perhaps you’ve met the soulmate you claimed couldn’t possibly exist._

**One month and four days earlier…**

_Are we at the stage where we can make fun of one another, because that felt a little like you making fun of me._

_You said you fell in love hard and fast. I’ve been thinking about it since, and I just don’t think I want that. See, I get this image in my mind: I’m standing on the very edge of a canyon, looking down, and I can’t see the bottom, there’s only darkness. When I think of falling ‘hard and fast,’ I imagine teetering on that edge for a moment before I plummet down, the Earth’s gravitational pull stronger than ever, dragging me into the heart of the canyon, enshrouded by darkness. Falling hard and fast feels…temporary. It feels like I’ll reach that bottom in no time at all, the landing leaving me dazed and confused for a while before I realize I’m in a place I don’t want to be. It’s like the end of a high, the very last second you can stay in bed before you have to get up, or the fading tingling of your lips after someone’s kissed you. There’s a finality, a regret, a sadness, to it that I don’t like._

_I don’t want something temporary, something that will end, something that’ll only make me feel nostalgic. I don’t want to fall ‘fast and hard.’_

**One month and three days earlier…**

Lexa stared at the new addition to the board, frowned, gathered her things, and left the café without bothering to address Raven’s worried looks or Clarke’s fading smile.

**One month earlier…**

“Get up.”

“No.”

“Lexa, what the hell happened, you were doing so well.” It was the frustrated huff in Anya’s voice that compelled Lexa to roll over on the couch, facing her best friend who was kneeling next to her, unable to quell feeling pathetic and weak. _She was there,_ she reminded herself firmly, _she would understand_. And yet, she still felt ashamed.

“Why do you think she left?”

“Does it matter?”

“It always mattered.”

“Lexa,” Anya said, reaching out tentatively before rethinking it and dropping her hand, “you can’t torture yourself over other people’s choices. She left. It’s over.”

“I’m not torturing myself.”

“Then what’s this?”

“Vague curiosity.”

“You’re full of shit.” She shoved Lexa lightly, raising her eyebrows and waiting for Lexa to react. When she didn’t, Anya let out a loud sigh, leaning forward and pressing her forehead against Lexa’s shoulder. “What happened, Lexa?” The words were soft and Lexa brought up her hand and placed it on the back of Anya’s head, glad that she wasn’t looking at her. (It was always so hard to be honest when she could feel Anya’s concerned gaze.)

“Maybe it was doomed, you know? Maybe that was why it was so easy to love her, why it happened so quickly. Maybe it was just a temporary thing.”

“Oh Lexa,” Anya murmured softly, sitting up and giving Lexa a rare smile. “Love isn’t temporary, that’s why you’re hurting so much.”

“So when does that go away? When does it stop hurting?”

“You know what your problem is?” Anya asked, tilting her head to the side, studying Lexa carefully. “You’re so used to feeling hurt that you’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel anything else.”

“And what am I feeling?”

“Honestly? I think you’re confused. Hopeful and confused.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Go back to the café, Lexa. You’re missing Clarke, not Costia.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Anya merely rolled her eyes, getting to her feet in one fluid motion.

“Maybe I’m wrong,” she said, but she rolled her eyes again, making it clear that she thought otherwise, “but here’s what I think: two months ago, you could barely talk about Costia. Now you’re asking why she left.” She snorted, pulling Lexa’s blanket off her, throwing it onto the ground. “Face the music, Lexa. Your heart’s moved on, even if your brain is a little slow on the uptake.”

**Three weeks and six days earlier…**

She put out the cigarette the second she saw the door open, feeling guilty for smoking in the first place. She’d promised Anya she’d quit, but the daily visits to the coffee shop and the stress of seeing Clarke were making that promise a little difficult to keep.

“I can’t tell if you’re avoiding me or the shop or if Raven’s right and you’re upset with her,” Clarke said, her tone guarded, walls up, smiles gone. Lexa didn’t move, and felt rather than saw Clarke sit down on the step next to her, both of them facing the dumpster.

“I’m not avoiding anyone.”

“You were an unreliable regular for a few days there.”

“Things came up.”

“Oh.” Lexa turned to look at Clarke, feeling both a rush of guilt and something else, something she didn’t know how to name or explain. (She wanted to tell Clarke everything, wanted to ask about her art, wanted to know if she could help in any way save the coffee shop that had indirectly saved her, wanted to lean in and kiss her…)

(No. _No_. Not that last one. Clarke was a friend. A friend.)

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Clarke asked, determinedly avoiding Lexa’s gaze.

“For avoiding you.” That had Clarke ducking her head, to hide a smile or a frown, Lexa wasn’t sure. “You scare me you know.”

“What?”

“I’m terrified of you. How easily you see right through me. It’s…not something I’m used to.”

“I can stop,” she said, shifting her weight slightly so that their shoulders were pressed together. (She still avoided Lexa’s eyes.) “I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“It’s not uncomfortable. It’s just different.”

“Yeah?”

“You were right. About me, I mean. I’m sad.” Finally, Clarke turned to her, blue eyes downcast and glistening with unshed tears, tentatively taking Lexa’s hand in hers and threaded their fingers together. It was that, the silent support, the refusal to prod, that had the words spilling out of Lexa’s mouth—once again, unable to maintain her normal filter. “Her name was Costia,” she said shakily, unable to remember when she’d told _anyone_ about her. Anya had been there, had witnessed the carnage Costia left in her wake, and Lexa had always merely referred to Costia as ‘ _the girlfriend_ ’ with her therapist. Yet, she didn’t have to wonder if Clarke understood the significance of the confession; Clarke’s grip on her hand tightened, and she leaned over, resting her head on Lexa’s shoulder. “I loved her so much, Clarke. And one day, she just left.” She hung her head, hating that her eyes filled with tears, hating that after all this time, Costia still held so much power over her. “She was the real thing, the bigger thing.”

“No, no,” Clarke murmured, and to Lexa’s ultimate shock, Clarke’s free hand came up to her cheek, wiping away the stray tear, lifting her chin and forcing her to meet Clarke’s eyes. “She wouldn’t have left if she was the real thing. Lexa,” she said insistently, mouth pressed into a thin line, blue eyes still glistening, “you deserve so much better. You do. And you’ll find it, the real thing, the person that makes you tear down all your walls.”

“That’s what Anya says,” she said, voice thick with tears. Clarke smiled, using her thumb to wipe away more tears.

“She sounds like a smart woman.”

“Yeah. I started writing again. After I met you.” She didn’t know why she said it, except that she was thinking it and Clarke was too close, so close that she could count the freckles in her blue irises, could smell the faint scent of her shampoo. She was close, the movement of her thumb against Lexa’s cheek was calming, and Lexa couldn’t help but say what she was thinking.

“What a coincidence,” Clarke said softly. “I started painting again after I met you.”

(She felt like that was some kind of confession, a confession like her own, but before she could capitalize on the moment, it had flitted away, leaving her reeling and feeling like she missed something important—something vital.)

“Thank you,” Lexa said instead, instead of acting, instead of blurting another confession. Clarke looked genuinely confused.

“For what?”

“Your coffee made me warm.” She didn’t wonder if Clarke understood; there was no doubt in Lexa’s mind that if anyone could make sense of her, it was Clarke.

**Three weeks and five days earlier…**

There was a new message, right beneath the comment Lexa had never replied to:

_I think I’m in trouble, bulletin stranger._

Under that there was a drawing of a heart, part cartoonish, part anatomically correct. For whatever reason, it made Lexa laugh.

(But she still didn’t respond.)

**Two weeks and one day earlier…**

She started a new habit. Rather than go to the café every day at a different time, Lexa began to go about half an hour before closing, helping Raven and Lincoln wipe down the tables and put away the chairs, grinning and joking with Octavia, and then—when the others had left—spent several hours with Clarke.

The two of them would nurse Clarke’s special ‘Lexa Blend’ of hot chocolate while sitting out on the steps behind the coffee shop. At first, they sat in silence, making the occasional innocuous comment about the weather or their days. But as the days dragged on and Lexa’s embarrassment at her show of emotion faded, they began to actually talk.

Clarke told her about meeting Raven in college, about drunken nights she regretted at the time but now wouldn’t exchange for anything. She told Lexa about medical school, how she’d thought it was all she wanted—how her mother had thought it was all she wanted—but how Raven’s accident opened her eyes. (And if Lexa could tell there was more to this story than Clarke was saying, she didn’t bring it up, merely nodding along, letting their shoulders press together.)

In turn, Lexa told Clarke about meeting Anya in middle school, how they’d become friends over their mutual dislike of everyone else, how Anya stayed on the phone with her all night, listening to her struggle to rein in her sobs in the days, weeks, months following Tris’s passing.

Clarke told her about her ex-boyfriend, Finn. She rolled her eyes as she explained he’d been a cheater with ridiculous notions of love, but that she’d been quite fond of him (the closest, she said, she ever came to falling in love) and that was why it’d hurt when their relationship fell apart. She talked about how he still called sometimes, how she couldn’t quite cut him out completely despite her best efforts, how there was barely a twinge when she heard his voice nowadays.

And in turn, Lexa told Clarke about Costia, about her laugh and how she’d loved the animated expressions on her face as she read Lexa’s work, always looking up at the end with a dazzling smile and exclaiming it to be _incredible as always, Lexa_. (She didn’t admit what Anya knew: that for the longest time, she stopped writing in Tris’s memory and instead wrote for Costia—desperate to draw out a reaction from her, wanting to see her eyes glint, her lips draw up, hear her breathing become uneven. She didn’t admit that it was different with Clarke, that Clarke reminded her why the stories mattered to her in the first place.)

As the days dragged on, as Lexa’s embarrassment faded and Clarke opened up, as they began to talk more and more, there was an undercurrent of something greater, something that sent her heart into a fritz, something that both terrified her to no end and ceaselessly drew her in.

She couldn’t put a name to it, this strange and foreign hold over her, she didn’t know how. It was how the press of Clarke shoulder against her had her feeling flushed, how the accidental brush of their fingers left a tingling and rush in her veins she struggled to ignore. It was the way Clarke’s voice lulled her into a sense of safety, the way it was soothing and exciting all at the same time (a contradiction she couldn’t make sense of). It was the taste of the hot chocolate, the way Clarke grinned every time she called it ‘Lexa’s Blend,’ the sound of her laugh, the blueness of her eyes.

It was, after more than a week of their nightly get-togethers, Clarke saying goodbye with a kiss to her cheek (the second one leaving an imprint just as strong and just as agonizingly unforgettable as the first), and Lexa couldn’t think about anything else.

It was Raven calling the time she spent with Clarke ‘dates,’ Octavia rolling her eyes and saying she needed to make the first move because it was getting painful to watch, and Lincoln letting out an awkward laugh and unsubtly mentioning how much happier she and Clarke looked.

It was Clarke admitting she missed the bulletin board banter, compelling Lexa to write a hasty apology and reply (just to see Clarke smile, just to be able to sit with her and discuss her opinion).

(It was the realization that it’d been twelve days since she thought of Costia with regret and sadness, twelve days since she felt cold, twelve days since she’d felt the weight on her chest and shoulders ease—twelve days since Clarke told her she deserved better and Lexa believed her.)

As the days dragged on, as Lexa’s embarrassment faded, Clarke opened up, and the _something more_ flourished, it became harder and harder to keep her eyes away from Clarke’s lips, harder and harder to pretend she didn’t want to bury her face in Clarke’s neck whenever she pulled Lexa into a hug, harder and harder to hide the flush of her cheeks and the racing of her heart.

And so, when Clarke leaned forward to press a kiss to Lexa’s cheek for the third time, Lexa turned her head, capturing Clarke’s lips instead.

It was short, innocent, barely a brush of their lips, but her heart was pounding and head was spinning as she pulled away to gauge Clarke’s reaction. Her eyes were shut, mouth slightly ajar, and Lexa felt something in her abdomen harden (felt herself grow guarded in preparation for the rejection she felt was coming).

“Clarke?”

“No talking,” Clarke said, her eyes opening, the intensity in them leaving Lexa stunned. “Just doing.”

“I don’t—”

Clarke silenced her by pulling her forward into a kiss that was anything but short or innocent.

(And Lexa was left breathless, though for the first time, she was glad for it.)

**One week and six days earlier…**

_Here’s a question to ponder: what if something wrong feels really right? What do you do?_

**One week and five days earlier…**

_Honestly, I guess it depends. If this is your way of telling me you’re a bank robber or something, I’d say you should retire and find something else to do with your life. If you’re being more general, then I’d ask what makes you think it’s wrong._

**One week and four days earlier…**

_When does being guarded fall into the territory of being dishonest? Where do you draw the line, the distinction, between those two concepts? See, I’m no bank robber (honestly though, it’s maybe a career choice I should look into, it’d probably be lucrative), I’m just a liar._

_I don’t want to be. God, I really don’t. I wish I wasn’t this person, that I could go back to when I wasn’t like this. I just…I don’t know. It’s wrong, I know what I’m doing is wrong, that it’s certainly not fair, but I’m afraid of losing this one good thing in my life if I admit the truth. I have no clue what to do, and I’m worried I’ll keep pushing the moment I have to come clean back for so long that when it finally does happen, I’ll be worse than a liar. So tell me. What do I do?_

**One week and three days earlier…**

_I don’t know your situation, but I understand your fear. Sometimes the truth is painful, sometimes it’s something that you don’t want to deal with. I can understand the urge to flee, to run away and hide. But here’s the rub: hiding from the truth, whatever that truth might be, isn’t possible—eventually, it catches up to you, forces you to confront it._

_I don’t know if there’s an easy distinction to be made between being guarded and being dishonest. After all, closing parts of yourself off—hiding who you are—is a form of dishonesty. That said, I don’t think you should worry about admitting the truth. Take it from someone who knows: no matter what sort of mask you’ve got on, there are some people in this world who’ll see right through you and stick by you regardless, and those people are the ones who matter._

_I don’t know what you should do. My best advice would be to trust your gut._

**One week and two days earlier…**

Anya chewed the pen’s cap, brows furrowed in concentration, one hand tapping idly against her coffee cup, the other furiously scribbling notes. Lexa watched her for a moment, debating whether or not it would be worth it to break her concentration by asking if she wanted more coffee, then sighed, turning to look at the bulletin board behind her. Her reply had gone unanswered, which was fine. Absolutely fine. Glaring a little at the board, she wasn’t quite sure why she sounded so unconvincing to her own ears.

She turned when she heard Raven approach, not liking the grin on her face as she stepped up to their table and leaned on it, propped up on her elbows.

“So, how are my two favorite customers?”

“Waiting on their coffee refills,” Anya replied curtly, not looking up from her work.

“She’s working on a case,” Lexa explained, shrugging when Raven seemed rather offended that Anya wasn’t going to apologize. “She’s just stressed.”

“I wouldn’t be so stressed if you actually helped.”

“What? Lexa, you’re a lawyer?”

“No, not really.”

“Not really?” Anya looked up, spitting out the pen cap, much to both Lexa and Raven’s utter disgust. “You went to law school, didn’t you? Passed the bar? What do you mean, ‘not really?’”

“I don’t practice.”

“Because you became a bestselling author. But that doesn’t mean you’re not a lawyer.”

“Bestselling author?” Raven asked, eyebrows raised, expression far too pleased for someone who’d been lied to.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“She’s being modest,” Anya muttered, waving her and carelessly. “It’s annoying. Lexa does well. She just stays on at the firm because she feels she owes it to Indra.”

“Anya, stop it.”

“Anya, please don’t stop it.”

“I’m just saying,” Anya continued, returning to her work, pen cap back in her mouth, “you’re brilliant. I don’t know why you keep trying to hide that.”

“I’m going to need one of your books now, you know that, don’t you?”

“Fine. Just. Please don’t tell anyone else.”

“Not even Clarke?” Raven asked, waggling her eyebrows.

“Not even her.”

“Huh.”

“What?” Raven stood up, shrugging a little, the grin from earlier gone.

“I figured you and Clarke were pretty honest with each other, that’s all. She never shuts up about you.” Anya didn’t look up so she missed the blush, but Lexa could tell she was listening intently.

“We are honest. I just want to tell her myself.” Raven’s grin reappeared, and she patted Lexa on the back.

“I’m so glad you said that. Clarke’s looking for you. And you know, there’s no time like the present to tell her everything.”

“Where is she?” Lexa asked, ignoring everything else. Raven rolled her eyes as she watched Lexa get to her feet.

“In the back.” The words were barely out of Raven’s mouth before Lexa was gone, heading straight towards the employee entrance, finding Clarke sitting on the steps, arms wrapped around her legs, chin resting on her knees. She didn’t look up when Lexa came up to her, just held out a hand, wordlessly asking for comfort, a tell tale sign that something was wrong.

“Clarke, what happened?”

“Nothing.” _Nothing_ , except that her voice was thick and she was still refusing to meet Lexa’s eyes.

“How can it be nothing,” Lexa said, shifting so that she was sitting next to Clarke, angled towards her, still grasping her hand, “when you’re crying?”

“It’s so stupid, Lexa.”

“Tell me.”

“I was talking to Bellamy and he said it’d be easier if we just moved, opened the café somewhere else.” She looked up then, and Lexa felt her heart clench: Clarke’s cheeks were streaked with tears, both dried and fresh, her eyes were puffy and red, her lower lip was quivering from the effort it took to not break down right there. Without really thinking about it, Lexa reached out with her free hand, brushing Clarke’s hair back, trailing her thumb over her cheekbones before finally resting at her neck, gently grazing her fingers over the soft skin there. “We can’t lose this place,” Clarke murmured, leaning into Lexa’s touch. “We just can’t lose it. My dad helped with this place, nowhere else would be the same.” Lexa understood without needing Clarke to explain (understood because she could see the fear and pain in Clarke’s eyes, understood because she’d felt the exact same way, once). She leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together.

“You won’t lose this place.”

“Their lawyers—”

“We’ll beat them. I’ll ask Anya to help. I can help. We’ll figure this out. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Do you want to stay out here for awhile?”

“Yes. Please.” She released her legs and wrapped her arms around Lexa instead, leaning into her, face pressed into her neck. “I’m sorry I’m slobbering on you.”

“It’s a privilege to be slobbered on by you.”

“Liar.”

“What? You don’t believe me?” Clarke burrowed her face further into Lexa’s neck, inhaling deeply and carefully before exhaling, the hot puff of breath sending shivers down Lexa’s spine.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered and if Lexa didn’t know any better, she would’ve sworn Clarke pressed a kiss to her neck.

“Yeah Clarke, me too.”

**One week earlier…**

“Clarke, tell her. Tell her about the time we out drank the frat boys.”

“They were Bellamy’s friends,” Clarke said, shrugging, “and they were really too arrogant for their own good. We had to take them down a peg.” Raven continued to laugh, mumbling under her breath about out drinking fraternity brothers, while Lincoln turned to Lexa with a roll of his eyes.

“I think your Lexa speak has rubbed off on Clarke. From what I hear, Raven and Clarke traumatized these guys into swearing they’d never drink again.”

“Yeah,” Raven said nostalgically, leaning her head back, hands clasped behind her neck, “it was great.”

“That’s not even their best story,” Octavia added as she sat down next to her boyfriend, taking a sip of his beer. “There’s the one where Raven accidentally caused an explosion in their chemistry lab—”

“—they really should’ve known better than to trust us with all those chemicals—”

“—and another time when Clarke set the frogs used in the physiology labs free.”

“It wasn’t the brightest of ideas,” Clarke said, shrugging again when Lexa just laughed. “Don’t judge,” she said, grinning at Lexa and bumping shoulders. “You have to have stories about college too.”

“Not really. I spent a lot of my free time with Anya. But otherwise, I’d find a quiet spot on campus to write.”

“Oh, so you were a nerd.”

“Was a nerd? Like she’s not one anymore?” Raven asked incredulously, looking like she was seconds away from bursting out laughing. “Don’t get me wrong though, some people are into the nerdy thing. Clarke certainly is.” Lexa, who’d been taking a sip of her beer, nearly choked, but when she looked up at Clarke in shock, she was only met with flaming cheeks and averted eyes.

“Drop it, Raven,” Octavia said, getting to her feet and gathering empty bottles. Lexa felt a rush of affection for the younger girl, an affection that was rapidly lost once she continued speaking. “You’re just going to freak them out more and if they move any slower, the dorks would be going backwards.”

“Leave them alone,” Lincoln grinned, winking at Lexa. “It’s none of our business.” He winked again, as if trying to send her some kind of message, but Lexa just stared at him dumbly, confused and annoyed.

“Whatever,” Octavia said, “I don’t have the patience for it anyway. I’ll see you two dorks tomorrow.” She tossed the beer bottles into the trash, grabbed Lincoln by the hand, and left with merely a wave. Raven sighed and got to her feet as well, looking vaguely disappointed.

“I guess that means I have to leave too. Don’t forget what you told me, Lexa.” She looked at the two of them with mock severity and then she too left, leaving Clarke and Lexa alone, the silence between them stretching on, awkward and unbearable.

“What did you tell her?”

“Tell who?”

“Raven?”

“Oh. She wanted to read one of my books. I told her I wanted you to read it first.”

“Really?”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“I just…you seemed so determined not to let any of us read your work. Does this mean you trust us, Lexa?” It was said teasingly, meant as a joke, but Lexa nodded seriously.

“I trust you, Clarke. Who knows, maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve left parts of myself in my work and you can get to know me better.” Clarke grinned, approaching Lexa, the proximity making her heart race, her breathing becoming uneven.

“I think I know you pretty well by now, Lexa.”

“You do?”

“Octavia’s right about one thing,” Clarke continued, stepping even closer, their faces barely an inch apart. “We kissed and I thought I’d wait till you were ready to talk about it, but I’m not patient enough.”

“I was waiting for you.”

“So no more waiting?”

“No more,” Lexa murmured, closing that last inch between them, hands immediately wrapping around Clarke’s waist, pulling her closer. The kiss was anything but innocent—it was frenzied, desperate, open-mouthed, each brush of Clarke’s lips, each graze of her teeth, each stuttering breaths she took, each heart-pounding time she tugged Clarke closer and Clarke pressed forward (ever closer, just _closer_ ), sent shock waves of fire and desire through her veins, leaving her feeling high and elated and free and utterly breathless.

(And it was incredible.) 

**Six days earlier…**

“How many are there anyway?” Lexa complained, shifting the weight in her arms so that it was balanced on her hip as she stood to the side, watching Clarke dig through another box on the ground. They were outside Clarke’s building, people giving them strange looks as they hefted box after box up the stairs to her apartment. “These boxes are heavy.”

“Stop complaining, you offered to help.”

“I didn’t realize helping consisted of manual labor.”

“What did you think it consisted of?” Clarke asked, looking up and raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” she muttered, shrugging as best she could with the box in her hands. “Something infinitely more fun?”

“Why, I never,” Clarke mock gasped in an exaggerated Southern accent. “Are you questioning my virtue?”

“I was hoping it’d be a little more malleable, yes.” Clarke laughed, picking up the box and getting to her feet.

“You haven’t even taken me out on a date,” she said with a wink, making Lexa blush before she managed to pull herself together.

“I’m sorry, all those nights at the café? Were they not dates?”

“You can’t take me out to my own coffee shop, Lexa,” Clarke laughed, motioning for Lexa to go up the stairs ahead of her. “That’s just lazy.”

“Please, you never leave the café. How am I supposed to take you out if you’re never, you know, _out_?”

“I go out.”

“I go out,” Clarke huffed, moving past Lexa, only pausing on the steps long enough to fix her with a glare.

“Yeah? Give me one example.” Clarke sighed in defeat, rolling her eyes as Lexa overtook her and rushed up the remaining steps before hurrying down Clarke’s floor and stopping in front of her door.

“You’re one to talk. Do you do anything but come to the coffee shop?”

“Yeah, well, I come for you, don’t I?”

“Well if you’re going to take the trip for me, Lexa, why should I need to go anywhere anyway?” she said, sounding slightly flustered. She unlocked her door, balancing the box in her arms precariously between her elbow and knee until Lexa took pity on her and took it from her. “It’s lucky that you’re strong,” Clarke said cheerfully as she pushed the boxes at the floor into her apartment, leaving them in the corner before motioning for Lexa to do the same.

“You never said what was in the boxes.”

“Art supplies.”

“That’s a lot of art supplies.”

“What can I say, I’ve been feeling inspired lately.”

“Well,” Lexa began awkwardly, putting her boxes down and rubbing the back of her neck, “I guess I should go.”

“What? No, stay. I can order pizza or Chinese. We’ll make a night of it.”

“And what about your virtue?” Clarke grinned then, closing the door and pushing Lexa up against it.

“I forget,” she began, bit before she could say anything else, Lexa captured her lips in a kiss, had turned so that Clarke was the one against the door, had tangled her hands in her hair.

“No talking,” she mumbled, heart racing when she felt Clarke’s fingers at her waist, sneaking under the hem of her shirt, and then tugging slightly on her jeans so that they were pressed more firmly together. “Just doing.”

When Clarke looked at her with wide, pupil-blown eyes, mouth slightly parted, Lexa wondered if they were going too fast.

When her shirt was on the floor and Clarke’s fingers were tracing reverent patterns into her skin before pulling her into another heated kiss, Lexa wondered if this was too soon.

When Clarke was beneath her, chest heaving and eyes closed, Lexa determinedly stopped thinking at all.

**Five days earlier…**

It was the sun that woke her. (It was Clarke, her soft breathing, the faint thud of her heart against Lexa’s chest.)

Clarke.

She closed her eyes, attempted to even out her breathing, reveling in the sunlight streaming in from the window, the warmth of Clarke’s body against her, the sense of security Clarke’s arms gave her.

_Clarke_.

She slowly extricated herself from Clarke’s arms, careful not to wake her, and sat up in bed, head in her hands, panic welling up somewhere deep in her chest. This was moving on, this _had_ to be moving on. She was fine, she was at peace, this was _good_.

(So why was she so afraid? What was so terrifying? What could possibly be wrong here?)

“You weren’t ready.” Lexa jumped at the voice, eyes flying open, turning to look at Clarke in shock. She opened her mouth quickly, wanting to tell her how this moment felt utterly perfect, wanting to somehow explain how the twisting in her chest (the ache somewhere deep in her bones) had nothing to do with Clarke or them or anything, but Clarke was too quick for her. “It’s fine, Lexa.”

“I don’t regret it.”

“Good, neither do I.” Clarke reached down, finding her shirt (which Lexa had tossed carelessly to the floor), and pulled it on without sparing her a glance. “I like you, Lexa,” she said softly, shrugging and still not meeting her eyes. “I like you a lot. But you’re not ready. So we stick to friends. That’s it.” It was only then that Clarke looked up, only then that she met Lexa’s eyes, and it was only then that Lexa noticed the tears. (She knew, she knew she could speak up, could _explain_ , but though her mouth opened and closed, no sound came out.) “It’s okay,” Clarke said, finality to her tone. “Really. It’s okay.”

(It wasn’t okay.)

(Lexa was cold again.)

**Four days earlier…**

“You fucked up,” Raven hissed, eyes narrowed. “Whatever you did, _fix it_.”

“I’m _trying_.”

**Three days earlier…**

_Remember when you told me the truth has a way of catching up to you? Well, you were right._

**Two days earlier…**

_Remember when I told you I thought I was in trouble, bulletin board stranger? Well, I was right about that, too. I hate it when I’m right._

**One day earlier…**

“Stop being such an idiot and just go talk to her already,” Anya said, flicking her on the forehead. “If you weren’t ready do you really think you’d be moping around about something that was never really a thing? Come on, Lexa. You’re better than this.”

“She ignores me at the café.”

“Then go to her apartment if you have to. Stop moping, go to her, and fix this mess.”

“What if she hates me? What if she decides I’ve got too much baggage, what if I lose her?” (This was why, she realized, why she’d been afraid, why she’d panicked. The irony was that she had been so afraid she’d lose Clarke that she lost her.)

“You won’t know until you _talk to her_. Okay?”

“Okay.”

**Present day…**

Without Clarke by her side, the trek up the stairs and down the hall was longer and dreadful. Her palms were clammy, her chest was clenching, her head pounded. (Her heart ached, weighed down by everything she wanted to say but couldn’t; her heart was cold, frozen solid from the amount of time Lexa had paid it no heed.)

When she knocked on the door, there was a part of her that didn’t think it would open, but then Clarke was standing here, hair pulled back in a messy bun, eyes red (like she’d been _crying_ , Lexa thought with an awful pang), clothes disheveled. She swallowed hard, memorizing every inch of her, trying to gather the courage to speak.

“What do you want, Lexa?” Clarke asked, breaking the silence first.

“I don’t want to be your friend.”

“Lexa—”

“Wait, hear me out.” She waited until Clarke nodded curtly before hurrying on, trying hard not to trip over her words, the memorized speech. “I’ll never be able to just be your friend. I can’t be. Not when you’re, _you_. I can’t just be a friend because, Clarke, I will _always_ want more.” She paused, swallowed hard, met Clarke’s eyes briefly before refocusing on a spot just above her shoulder. “And I know that’s selfish or stupid or whatever, especially the way I am right now, but it is what it is.” She heaved a breath, fingertips pressed against the inside of her wrist, counting the frozen beats of her heart. “I’m a little slow, Clarke, but I _am_ ready. And I want you. All of you.” The confession left her feeling bare and terrified, and though she wanted to meet Clarke’s eyes—her eyes that always spoke volumes, her eyes that were far more expressive and open than anything Lexa had ever encountered—she wasn’t brave enough. She wasn’t courageous enough to look down, find out what Clarke as truly thinking, because she wanted to suspend this moment forever—this moment in which she was on the edge, on the very precipice of falling, waiting for the second, the moment, the heartbeat’s worth of time it took to take the single step forward (there was excitement in this moment, a thrill, but there was also safety, a sense that if Clarke decided not to take the fall with her, she could always back out). But as the moments and silence dragged on, she swallowed and hung her head, realizing the truth: she was Atlas, condemned to bearing the weight of the world on her back, crumbling beneath the burden, exhausted and weak and alone.

She began to take the step back.

Suddenly, however, she felt fingers at her chin, felt a soft tug, felt Clarke’s lips against her own. And Lexa, she fell into it (fell into Clarke, fell for Clarke), headfirst and desperately. (And her heart, whose stammering and fluttering she’d gotten used to, hammered in her chest, almost as if in celebration that it was finally free of the binds Lexa had placed it in. And her heart, the heart she’d thought had broken forever, had frozen forever, pounded away, desperate and explosive and tireless.) She tugged Clarke closer, unashamed of the wetness on her cheeks. Because when Clarke kissed her, she remembered:

It wasn’t the world Atlas held on his shoulders, it was the heavens. And she was not alone. She knew that from the way Clarke held her, tight and unwilling to let go. She knew from the way Clarke pulled back just briefly to whisper, “If it wasn’t obvious, I want more too.” She knew that from the way Clarke’s hand wrapped gently around her wrist, as if she too was counting the beats of her heart.

(And that was when it warmed.)

_XXXXX_

_I’m not a writer. I’m not a poet. I don’t really know how to explain this in a way that makes sense and yet actually captures what I’m feeling—an explanation that actually encompasses all that language just doesn’t have the ability to convey—but you told me to tell you about how I fall in love and I thought I’d try. So bear with me. This’ll be rough._

_Listen. I’m falling in love with her in parts._

_First, it was her eyes. It’s the sadness in them, the way they shine with heartbreak yet glimmer with expectation for more. I’m falling for the spark of hope buried deep in her eyes, like she’s desperately trying deny that she craves more, wants more, but can’t completely cast off the warmth and faith (like this capacity to put her heart on the line is so vital to her character, so embedded in her very bones and soul, that she can’t hide from it no matter how desperately she tries). I’m falling in love with the softness of her gaze, the gentleness of her look, the peace and calm she exudes despite everything that has happened to her. I’m falling in love with that sadness too, bulletin stranger. I think people forget that there’s just as much beauty in sadness and pain as there is in joy and happiness. It’s a different kind of beauty, tinged with a melancholy that’s difficult to bear, but it’s no less incredible._

_Then, it was her voice. I didn’t hear much of it at first—she’s quiet, slow to trust, slow to open up—but as she warmed up to me, talked to me, her voice became the thing I looked forward to the most every day. I’m falling for the way her lips forms words, the way she speaks eloquently and clearly, enunciating each word with intent and care—like she’s spent years thinking of them, and is sure of each of them. I’m falling in love with the strength of her voice, the way it remains soft and gentle even when her words are rough. I’m falling in love with the change in cadence and octave when she’s frustrated, annoyed, cheerful, sad, excited. But most of all, I’m falling in love with the way her voice changes when she speaks to me. It becomes softer, tinged with an emotion I can’t quite name, and words slip from her lips like she has no control over them—her words coming out just as clear as ever, but with more passion, with more carelessness, a desperation to slip the words past the walls she’s so carefully constructed. It’s a reckless abandon, like she can only be true to herself with only the select few she allows to get near her, and I’m falling for the way she’s brought me into that group._

_And now, as I get to know her better, I’m falling for her quick wit, her cleverness and charm. I’m falling for her humor and her ridiculous taste in television. I’m falling for her kindness, her generosity, her desire to do anything she possibly can for the people around her. It’s the way she taps her finger on the table when she’s feeling impatient, or the moment her face breaks out into a wide smile when she sees me, the hitching of her breath when I even brush against her, the race of her heart when she leans in for a kiss._

_Listen. I’m falling slowly and steadily for her. Do you remember my canyon? With her, the fall is breathtaking—like that moment right before the orchestra reaches the crescendo, that second when you make it to the end of your hike to meet a glorious view of the sunrise. With her, there is no reaching the bottom, no feelings of finality or becoming trapped in the darkness. God, with her it’s like forever._

//

_I was right. It’s beautiful._

//

She yawned into her coffee, barely noticing when Raven slid into the chair across from her, expectant and apparently rather annoyed judging by her unimpressed glare.

“What?”

“You still haven’t taken Clarke out on a date.”

“I what?”

“The two of you haven’t gone out on a real date yet. It’s embarrassing.” Lexa frowned, drained the last of her coffee, and tried to catch up.

“I’m sorry, I barely slept last night. What’s going on?”

“Barely slept?” Raven waggled her eyebrows, and it took a pitifully long time before Lexa cottoned on and looked away, blushing.

“I was working. Anya has me helping with her case.”

“I see.”

“See what?”

“Too busy with work to take my best friend out properly?”

“Clarke and I have talked about it. We haven’t gone on a date, but we still see each other.”

“Yeah, briefly, whenever you come in for coffee. It’s _lame_ , Lexa. You know that, don’t you?”

“Clarke and I are fine.”

“Please, I know Clarke. She’s freaking out. She won’t admit it, but she is.”

“Freaking out about what? I don’t understand.” Raven let out a long sigh, rolling her eyes and leaning forward, clearly not at all amused.

“She really likes you, Lexa. But every day that goes by and you guys just sort of skirt around each other, she wonders if you feel the same way.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? We’ve talked. She knows exactly how I feel, I told her.” Raven nodded, reaching out with her right hand and pulling Lexa’s coffee cup away from her, squeezing her now free hand almost condescendingly.

“Sure, but haven’t you heard? Actions speak louder than words.”

“You think Clarke is unsure about how I feel?”

“Unsure about how committed you are, yeah.”

“How do you know?”

“She’s my best friend. Of course I know.” Lexa pulled her hand away, now suddenly fully awake, leaning back in her chair and unable to look away from Raven’s gaze.

“This is none of your business,” she said coolly, head held high, feeling a surge of anger. “Besides, Clarke knows she can just tell me exactly what she’s thinking.”

“Have you told her you’re a lawyer yet? That you’re a bestselling author?”

“That’s not—”

“—the point? Of course it is. You and Clarke are the exact same way. You both talk a big game but neither one of you is actually committed to it.”

“Raven—”

“Ask her about why she dropped out of med school. Why she opened up this place. About those fucking bulletin letters—”

“—what are you—”

“—just don’t assume you know what she’s thinking. The two of you have ‘stories we tell our grandchildren’ potential. Don’t screw all that up by being too scared to ask her out on a date.”

“But she—”

“She won’t ask you out. She wants to move slow and respect your feelings. Whatever that means.”

“Will you let me finish a sentence?”

“Unless it’s,” she put on an affected voice, “ _yes, Raven, I most certainly will take your advice_ , then no.” She raised her eyebrows, eyes widened and unblinking. “I’ve said my piece. You can now finish your coffee in peace.”

“Thanks, really.” Raven missed the sarcasm, smiling wide as she got to her feet and giving Lexa a pat on the shoulder as she walked towards the back, immediately joining Lincoln and Octavia, and—judging by the looks they sent her way—launching into a immediate explanation as to how the talk had gone.

Lexa sighed, put her head down, and tried to ignore the pounding in her head and the hammering in her chest.

//

“Did you eat the last slice?”

Lexa chewed hurriedly, swallowed, and turned her head. “No.”

“You have sauce on your chin. You ate the last slice!”

“Technically, it’s my pizza. So technically, the last slice was mine anyway.”

“That’s not how it works, Lexa. I _called_ it. From the very beginning I called dibs, and you _ate_ it.” Lexa raised her eyebrows, licking her lips exaggeratedly.

“Weirdly, it tasted better than all the other slices. Just, pure perfection.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious, Anya. It was otherworldly. It’s a shame you didn’t get to taste it.” Anya growled, and before Lexa could prepare, she’d tackled her to the floor—much like they used to do in high school, when Lexa was being what Anya called ‘mopey and annoying’—shifting so that she was sitting on top of her while Lexa groaned. “Geddof!”

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you with the carpet in your mouth. You want me to stay here? Got it.” Lexa rolled and pushed Anya off of her, moving to sit on the ground with her back against the couch, watching Anya warily.

“Grow up, that got old in high school.”

“Not only did you steal my food, you were being a smartass.”

“You’re in _my_ apartment! Eating _my_ food!”

“Your point?”

“I thought you came over to work on the Cage Wallace stuff.” Anya groaned, laying back, arms and legs splayed wide, her chest rising and falling with the heavy huffs of air she forced in and out through her nose.

“Don’t talk to me about work, I’m so tired of him, he’s a fucking joke.”

“I take it the case isn’t going well?” Anya turned her head, fixing Lexa with a glare.

“It’s a massacre, Lexa. These poor people don’t stand a chance, what we’re doing is just…wrong.” Lexa frowned, leaning up and grabbing the folders and papers that Anya had left scattered on the couch and flipped through them, looking at Anya’s notes.

“I don’t understand. I thought it was just some real estate stuff. Titles, things like that.”

“Cage Wallace doesn’t own these properties,” Anya muttered, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. “He’s paying us as much as he is because he wants the land, by any means necessary. I think he’s turning it into a shopping complex or something.” Her insides turned into lead, and she got to her feet hurriedly, going to the table and pulling out the rest of the documents out of Anya’s bag. “Hey, what’re you—”

“—you’re one of the she-devils,” Lexa whispered, eyes wide, reading through the papers again, hoping she’d misunderstood. “You and Indra…the Wallace case you’ve been so happy about…you’re the ones trying to close down Clarke’s coffee shop.” Anya went rigid, mouth falling open. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I swear, I didn’t know. You know I didn’t know.”

“It’s right here, the shop is on the fucking list of businesses he’s trying to bully away!”

“Lexa, if I’d known I would’ve told you. I swear. I’ve never even met the lawyer these people have hired, only Indra has.” Lexa shook her head, staring at her best friend, unable to help the bubble of suspicion that bloomed in her chest.

“I have to tell her. I have to help…if she’s up against you and Indra—”

“You can’t do that. You know how important this case is. And Indra would never forgive you, not like with—”

“Costia? This isn’t like that. I can’t—I can’t let you just ruin her life.”

“And what’re you going to do? Sabotage all our work? Ruin your career? Ruin the firm?” She pressed her fingers against her temples, pacing back and forth, unable to look at Anya, unable to feel anything but panic and disgust (because she knew, she knew from the second she saw Anya’s rigid form, exactly how she was going to react—exactly what she was going to do).

“I can’t do this to her, Anya. Clarke…She’s. I can’t.”

“You don’t have to do anything at all. You’re not involved in this case.” She got to her feet, grabbing Lexa by the shoulders and holding her still and steady, eyes hard and guarded. “You’re not doing this to her.”

“No, my best friend and boss are. And I’m complicit, Anya. By association.”

“This isn’t on you. There’s nothing you can do. Just let it go.”

“She loves that place, Anya. She loves it.” Anya didn’t answer her; instead, she pulled Lexa into a loose hug, gently rubbing her back, and didn’t say a word when Lexa’s tears dripped onto her shoulder. “What am I going to do?” Lexa asked again, voice barely above a whisper, knowing—already knowing—exactly what she had to do.

//

_I think, perhaps, I may be broken._

_Here’s a question to ponder: is it possible to be born perfectly normal and yet be so fundamentally damaged? At the end of the day, I think I’m just kidding myself, you know? In my heart of hearts, I think I recognize that some people just aren’t built to deserve love, and I think I know that I’m one of those people._

_It has to be true, doesn’t it? That some people, no matter how desperately they try—no matter how close they get—they’re destined to miss out on love because for whatever reason, those feelings merely slide off them like a sludge, as if their skin is impervious to it. After all, isn’t that what makes love special? That it’s so rare, so terrifyingly rare? If it was something everyone had, or everyone deserved, why would it be such a big deal? Would we have writers and poets and artists and musicians pouring their hearts and souls into their works in a foolhardy attempt to explain the inexplicable if it truly were so mundane?_

_Perhaps I’m flawed, broken, a mismatch. Perhaps, when the universe exploded into being, the atoms that would end up forming me were at the furthest reaches of the bang, distant and untouchable, even from the start. Perhaps there’s a flaw in my code, a mistake, a mutation in my DNA where it’s written that I’m destined to fall in love—deeply, terribly, irrevocably—only to watch as it all falls apart, burns to ashes, leaving me trembling and shivering in the wake of the wreckage. Perhaps, after wondering all this time why no one has loved me the right way, I finally have to accept the truth: the problem is with me. The issue is that I’ve never been able to love the right way._

_Or maybe the truth is that I don’t even know what love is and I’ve been fooling myself._

//

_I don’t think love is special or revered because it’s rare. While rarity is beautiful and valuable, I also think that would be a very sad thought. It’s an awfully lonely way to think. I’m not the best person to talk to about this sort of thing. As you’ve pointed out, I’ve only just fallen in love for the first time. But I think I know enough to know you’re wrong._

_Love is special because it’s selfless, it’s about putting someone else—their feelings, their desires, their needs—ahead of your own, and that’s extraordinary. We’re at an evolutionary disadvantage when it comes to altruism. We’re literally born with the instinct to put our own needs first, to prioritize our own survival. But love, it overwhelms that part of our nature, it makes us better, and that’s why it’s such a big deal._

_As for everything else, you’re overthinking it. If things don’t work out, it’s not on you. It doesn’t mean you don’t deserve love or that you’re broken or flawed. It just means it didn’t work out. The greatest thing about love is that it’s not a finite resource, you know? It’s not like you’re one and done. Some people fall in love every day, others (like you, I think) are more cautious. Either way, you’re putting something out there into the universe that beautiful and pure, and one day someone will return the favor._

//

She stepped into the coffee shop warily, searching first for Clarke, and feeling her stomach plummet when the blonde was nowhere in sight. Keeping close to the door, she scanned the shop once more, wanting to make sure Clarke wasn’t around before she left, when she felt something latch onto her shoulder and guide her towards one of the free tables in the very back.

“I’m only here to see Clarke, let me go.”

“Clarke’s not here,” Octavia said, pushing her gently into a chair before staring down at her and crossing her arms over her chest. “Why being so sneaky, Lexa? Didn’t want someone to see you?”

“Raven is admittedly being rather difficult.”

“Right, well, she told me that if you came in I was to keep you here so we could have a few words.”

“It’s really not all that neces—” Lexa began, stopped short when Lincoln walked up to her and placed a cup of coffee on the table, giving her a weak grin.

“I’m sorry about them,” he said gently, raising his hands. “I tried to talk them out of it, but you know.” He shrugged, ignoring Octavia’s unimpressed look, and offered Lexa another smile. “But you get a coffee on me out of it.”

“Don’t you have a job to do?” Octavia asked, rolling her eyes.

“I don’t know. Don’t you?” Lincoln countered, laughing when Octavia just fixed him with a glare. “I’m going, I’m going. Good luck, Lexa. You’re going to need it.” And just like that, he abandoned her, leaving her alone with a scowling Octavia.

“If this is about the date thing—”

“Look who I found loitering out front.” Lexa’s mouth fell open as she watched Raven limp towards their table, one hand grasping Anya’s elbow rather tightly, Anya looking like she was ready to commit murder. “You have to smack some sense into your best friend.”

“You need to take your hands _off me_ ,” Anya hissed, and before she could actually hurt Raven, Lexa jumped to her feet and pulled Anya away, pushing her into a chair and sitting down next to her, giving her a pleading look to just remain patient.

“We really have to—”

“—listen to us? Why yes, Lexa, that’s exactly what we wanted to say.”

“Don’t you two have a coffee shop to run?” Anya asked, eyebrows raised, tone derisive.

“Lincoln can manage on his own for a few minutes,” Octavia shrugged, waving Anya’s concerns off. “Besides, this is important.”

“What Clarke and I do is entirely our business.” Raven merely coughed in response, and Octavia nodded, digging through her pockets and pulling out a folded piece of paper, which she took great pains to dramatically unfold. She cleared her throat, and ignoring Anya’s huff of annoyance, began to read. 

“This is an intervention. We’ve been watching you and Clarke for a few weeks now, and while we’re thrilled for the two of you, we’re also rather worried.”

“Lexa, let’s just go,” Anya muttered, but Lexa sighed, slouching into her chair.

“They’ll never let it go, we have to sit it out.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Octavia continued, looking offended at the interruption, “we’ve decided that we have to take action, force you two to talk.”

“Wait, is _that_ what all this is about?” Anya asked, sitting up and turning to Lexa with wide eyes. “I thought we agreed, there was nothing you could do.”

“Anya, stop—”

“Nothing she could do about what?”

“None of your business,” Anya hissed, eyes narrowed. “Lexa. You can’t actually be thinking of ruining another one of Indra’s cases.”

“I thought you said it was never my fault, that it was all on Costia,” Lexa shot back, ignoring Raven’s sharp intake of air and Octavia’s repeated inquires as to ‘What the hell is going the fuck on?’ “So that was all a lie, was it?”

“No, it was on her. But nothing would’ve happened if you’d kept your head on straight.”

“Indra? You mean Indra fucking Greene? The woman helping Wallace with all his fucking dirty work?” Raven asked, her eyes going hard, her shoulders setting like she was about to go to war. “You two work for the she-devils?”

“She-devils?” Anya repeated, offended, turning to Raven with her fists clenched. “We’re not she-devils.”

“I can see the fucking horns coming out of your head,” Raven said bitterly.

“Hold up,” Octavia spoke up, holding up her hand, frown on her face. “You mean to tell me that you’ve known about the Wallace stuff this entire time, that you work for him?” She sounded betrayed, angry, and Lexa swallowed hard, unable to speak and unsure why.

“Lexa had no clue,” Anya said immediately, fists still clenched. “She barely spends any time at the firm anyway.”

“You’re a _lawyer_?” Octavia asked, and Lexa felt a surge of gratitude towards Raven, realizing that the woman had kept her secrets even though she’d had no reason to. “What about all that writer shit?”

“I do, I mean, I am. I’ve published books.”

“She’s a fucking bestselling author, Octavia,” Raven said, and all of Lexa’s gratitude washed away immediately. “She hasn’t been honest about a single thing.” Octavia snorted mirthlessly, and without a look back, she stalked over to Lincoln, lips pursed into a thin line.

“That’s not fair,” Lexa began, shaking her head, ignoring Anya’s persistent tugging on her sleeve and turning to Raven instead. “I can’t be honest about something I had no clue about.”

“You’re a coward, Lexa,” Raven said, raising her chin. “You’re too scared to ask Clarke out. You’re afraid of telling us you knew about Wallace—don’t bother denying it, you know you weren’t going to say anything,” she spoke over Lexa’s protests, shaking her head as she plowed on angrily, “and you’re terrified that if any of us get a hold of your books we’ll recognize your writing style and know that you’ve been posting stuff on the bulletin board.”

“How…how did—”

“God, Lexa, who do you think put it up there in the first place?” Raven asked, rolling her eyes. Lexa could feel Anya’s curious gaze on her, could feel as she released her sleeve, could feel the heat and pressure of Raven’s anger. “Octavia and I have run interference for you, making sure no one would catch you posting your responses, because you looked like you needed an outlet. But I’m done. I’m done with you and I’m done with Clarke.” She seemed even angrier now, and Lexa had no idea why—what on earth had Clarke done? “So here’s the deal. You either tell Clarke about everything or I will.”

“Raven, you don’t understand. I can’t.”

“Look, I don’t give a shit about this place. What makes the coffee special is Clarke, not the damn shop. But she loves it here.” She paused, her glare softening, pity filling her eyes. “I know you’ve got issues, I know how hard it is for you to open up, but you have to tell her. Everything. I won’t let her get hurt again.” Without giving Lexa the chance to reply, she stalked off, joining Lincoln and Octavia, determinedly avoiding looking Lexa’s way.

“You were right,” Anya said after a long pause, her eyes on the bulletin board banter—which now took up most of the board.

“About what?”

“When you started writing again, you said it wasn’t the same as with Costia. You were right.” She turned to look at Lexa, a frown tugging on her lips. “I am so sorry.” And no matter how many times Lexa asked her why she was sorry, Anya refused to answer.

//

_For as long as I can remember, people have used the same word over and over again to describe me: fearless. Friends, family, teachers, strangers…everyone felt that that word summed me up the best—was the most appropriate description of my character. Fearless. And me? I felt like being fearless was utterly grand, considered it the highest of praise, took it upon myself to embody the concept as best I could. I wanted to prove that those people who knew me weren’t wrong, wanted to prove that, yes. I am fearless._

_I’ve since come to the realization that there’s no such thing as fearlessness._

_You’d think that would be an obvious observation. Everyone is afraid of something; everyone has their own cross to bear—their own weight to carry. But I was determined to be the exception for so long that I didn’t realize what I was afraid of was staring at me every time I looked at my reflection._

_I read somewhere that fear is an evolutionary advantage—we naturally fear that which could harm us, something that could mean we don’t pass on our genetic material to the next generation. It’s why people are afraid of snakes or heights. It’s only natural, I guess, that the thing I’d fear would be what poses a danger to me—what I consider to be harmful, an impediment to my future._

_I’m terribly afraid of loss, bulletin board stranger. I’m probably not the only one who feels this way (in fact, I’m quite sure I’m not the only one—the sting of loss, the pain of it, is something we all try to avoid, something we all innately fear) but I think that with me it’s a little more debilitating._

_I’m afraid of losing the ones I love, I’m afraid of them leaving, I’m afraid of hurting them, I’m afraid of them deciding I’m not worth it and hurting me. I’m paralyzed by terror at the mere thought of bearing more loss, of coping without someone else—someone I’d once leaned on, laughed with, loved. I’m afraid I’ll look into the mirror and see the cracks in my own armor, be able to trace those losses in my skin, reading the painful history in my eyes. (I’m afraid I’ve been broken one too many times to ever be whole again, and I’m afraid others will see that too.)_

_You see, I’m afraid of the emptiness within my chest, that ache in my abdomen, that rush in my head—I’m afraid of breathlessness, of heart pounding grief, of going back to the place I so narrowly escaped twice before._

_(I’m afraid that should I fall into the darkness a third time, there will be no way out for me, no hope for me, and that thought keeps me awake at night.)_

_I’m afraid of losing her. I’m afraid I opened up too soon, I’m afraid she’ll see my scars and will want to flee, I’m terrified that I will wake up one morning to the emptiness in my chest, that ache in my abdomen, that rush in my head, and realize that the reprieve was all just a dream—a brief moment, a passing glance, temporary and fleeting. _

_But most of all, my bulletin board friend, more than anything else, I’m scared that she will see my fear, will smell it on me, and the one person I want to think I’m fearless—the one person I want nothing more than to be brave for—will see me as the coward I truly am._

//

_To be honest, I think you’re brave._

_I don’t know why people value fearlessness. If you truly have no fears, if you’ve truly gone your entire life totally at peace, then what gave what you did value at all? I mean, maybe I’m just one of those annoying people who wants to see things from a more positive light. Hell, maybe I’m naïve and totally off base. But I think fear is crucial, it’s vital, to who we are._

_Why would it matter if you climbed a mountain if you were unafraid? What makes it impressive, what makes it extraordinary, isn’t the action itself, it’s the ability to overcome the fear that holds you back. And it doesn’t have to be something as wild as mountain climbing. It can be something as simple as talking to the cute cashier, going to a new school, speaking in front of people you don’t know, entering some kind of contest. The hardest part is breaking that overwhelming urge to hold back because we’re too afraid, being able to answer the question for yourself: which would you regret more, failing at something or never trying at all? And overcoming your fear, facing it and accepting it and doing something despite it, it makes what you did all the more important._

_So much of our lives are dictated by our fears. And while allowing them to rule you is a safe way to live, though perhaps not much of a life at all, being fearless is just as terrible a fate: you wouldn’t understand what made what you did matter in the first place._

_But you know, I think you’re brave. You’re brave because you’re afraid and you’re still moving on. You’re afraid and yet you’ve opened up to this girl. You’re afraid and yet, though you know it could mean pain, though you know it might end terribly for you, you’re still willing to climb that stupid mountain._

_And this girl, whoever she is, she knows that you’re afraid, but trust me. She also knows that you’re terribly brave too._

//

She knew it was a trap from the moment she’d gotten Raven’s text, telling her to show up Friday night before closing. (She knew that Raven had gone through with her threat, clearly realizing that after a week of nearly total silence, Lexa wasn’t going to be able to tell Clarke anything.)

She knew it was a trap, and yet she went anyway, knowing she owed Clarke at least this much.

The coffee shop was empty when she arrived, chairs stacked on top of the tables, floor swept, counter wiped clean (along with the bulletin board conversation, every single scrap of paper gone, along with the banner Raven had put up, along with the notes and pictures people had tacked on, adding their own two cents).

(She pretended that didn’t send shards of ice through her heart, managed to sigh and keep her eyes away from the blank board.)

“Oh. You’re here.” Lexa turned, noticing Clarke come in from the employee entrance, a thick book in her right hand, a hard set to her gaze.

“Didn’t like the bulletin board banter anymore?” She couldn’t help it; the words tumbled out without her brain’s consent, and she cursed inwardly as she watched Clarke’s eyes widen in surprise and then confusion.

“Oh,” she said, shrugging a little, “that’s right. You liked it, didn’t you?” Her eyes shifted to the board, roving over it as if she too was desperate to see the words that once littered the wall. “A few customers complained to Raven this week. We didn’t want any trouble, so we figured we’d just take it down.” Lexa blinked, suddenly realizing that Raven _hadn’t_ told Clarke about the bulletin board. Perhaps this wasn’t a trap, after all.

“What’s that book?” she asked, and Clarke let out a sigh.

“Raven bought it for me. Told me I’d be interested.” Dread pooled in her stomach, but she stayed silent, watching Clarke step closer, eyes not once wavering from Lexa’s. “Told me you’d know why I’d be interested.” Lexa took a deep breath. She didn’t know why Raven had told Clarke about the book—and judging from the anger that lined Clarke’s face, about Wallace—and not the bulletin board posts, but at that moment, she couldn’t be bothered to care.

“Clarke—”

“You know, I can get why you wouldn’t tell me about Wallace—”

“I didn’t know about—”

“—but I can’t figure out why you’d hide what you did from me. Where you worked. What book you published,” Clarke continued, speaking over Lexa, eyes flashing. “What’s so terrible in what you’ve written that you’re so fucking desperate to hide?”

“I’m not hiding anything, I told you, you can’t get to know my through my writing.”

“Then why hide it? If you’re not in your work, why not let me read it?”

“You don't get it,” she muttered, running her fingers through her hair, taking several steps back. 

“Then explain! For once just explain!”

“You think I write to discover myself?” Lexa snapped, angry and confused and _hurting_ without really knowing why. “Or, I don't know, that I write about me? _For_ me? Because that's the furthest from the truth!” She had no idea where the courage to speak so candidly came from, but she didn't question it, letting the words spill from her lips as they saw fit—needing, desperately needing, to get it all out and off her chest. “I write characters who are brave and generous and honest, characters who are willing to place their trust, their hearts, in someone else, characters who are put through obstacle after obstacle and yet find themselves victorious.” Her right hand inched towards her left wrist, needing and wanting to feel the hammering of her heart against her fingertips, to steady herself, to calm herself, to remind herself that she was alive. “I don't write about me, I write about anything _but_ me. Because I don't like me. I'm not open or easy to talk to or courageous, and I haven't even been able to get over my last obstacle let alone all the other ones that have been thrown at me.” Her chest heaved as she spoke, her heart hammered with the violence of her confessions, but she wasn't done. “I write to get away, Clarke. That’s what I don’t want people to see, all right? That I write to get away from my own mundane life, the banality of it, from the pain, from the fucking _sadness_.” The final word was whispered out, hissed out, forced through her clenched teeth and stiff jaw, sneaking past all her resistances and reservations. “It's an escape, a coping mechanism. Not a part of me, not a passion.”

“You’re a liar. No one can write like you do and not feel _something_.”

“What do you want from me, Clarke?”

“The truth! Be honest!” She threw Lexa’s book towards her, stepping forward and ramming her finger hard into Lexa’s sternum, punctuating each word with another jab. “From the minute you stepped into my shop, you lied. You lied about who you were, what you did—”

“—I’ve never lied to you, not once!”

“You lied by omission, Lexa!” she cried, throwing her hands up in the air, her voice cracking a little. “You watched me stress out over this Wallace stuff. You watched me and you said _nothing_. And even if it’s true, even if you didn’t know that you were working for the, the… _she-devils…_ who were trying to scare us into closing, you knew you worked for Wallace. You _knew_ and you didn’t say anything.” 

“Clarke—” she began, raising her hands and reaching towards Clarke, feeling a terrible swoop in her abdomen when Clarke shook her head, stepping back and away from Lexa.

“And you know what’s the worst part?” she asked, ignoring Lexa entirely, her eyes filling with tears. “I knew. I knew you were hiding something, but I ignored it, let it all go, because I didn’t want to scare you away. Because I was scared that if I pushed too hard, you’d leave.”

“Please, Clarke, just—”

“Could you just leave?” she said softly, turning her head and stepping further away from Lexa, as if no distance was too great, as if she could bear to even breathe the same air as her. “Just…just go.” She thought of Costia—she wasn’t quite sure why, when she felt like she was plummeting to the ground, when her heart was in her throat, when it felt like something was literally tugging at her chest, stretching it intolerably—and her hands shook.

(She thought of the look in Costia’s eyes as she shouldered her bag and walked out the door.)

(She thought of the darkness, the void, she’d found herself in.)

(Why was it happening all over again? When would she _learn_?)

“Okay,” she said shakily, surprised that the word was even intelligible, surprised she was able to speak at all. “Okay.” Her right hand grasped her left wrist, fingertips pressed tightly against the pulse point, unsurprised—completely unsurprised—at what she felt.

(And that was when it stopped.)

_XXXXX_

She didn’t even turn around when she heard the door open. “You know what I’ve decided?” she asked, chin on her palm, elbow propped up on the couch’s armrest, eyes focused on the television. The news channel was on, and she grimaced at the newscaster and his ghastly tie.

“What’ve you decided?”

“I’m meant to be alone, you know?” She turned only then, giving Anya a lopsided grin, resting her head back and closing her eyes.

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

“I mean, I’ve figured it out. I understand now,” Lexa continued, ignoring both Anya’s comment and the urge to reach down and find the wine bottle she’d placed on the ground just moments before Anya entered her apartment—uninvited as ever, always uninvited. “I met Costia in college, and I fell for her. You know, was stupidly in love with her, and while I’m thinking of proposals and marriage and kids for fucking sake,” the curse came out sloppily, halfheartedly, tinged with more pain than the bitterness she intended, and she blamed it entirely on the alcohol, “Costia is bored out of her mind. That’s why she left, yeah?”

“I don’t know why she left, Lexa,” Anya said softly, stepping over to her and settling down on the couch. Lexa could feel her warmth, her presence, the slight brush of her fingers against her arm, but she ignored it, keeping her eyes tightly shut.

“I do,” she announced, giving into her urge and reaching down for the bottle. When she brought it up to her lips, however, it was empty. Annoyed, she tossed it to the side and let out a long and loud sigh, crossing her arms over her chest almost petulantly. “I know why she left. It was me.”

“Lexa—”

“No, I’m serious. I’m supposed to be alone. That’s all there is to it. Costia saw it and she left, it was the smart thing to do.” She laughed mirthlessly, finally opening her eyes and giving Anya a placating smile, not quite sure what she was trying to convey—if she was okay or if this time she could actually pretend to be okay. “Maybe it was because I wasn’t a good sister. I was horrible and this is just karma.”

“You weren’t a bad sister,” Anya said, reaching out, but Lexa shrugged her off, getting to her feet shakily and heading towards her kitchen, looking for some more wine. “Lexa, you _weren’t_ ,” Anya insisted, just making Lexa snort. 

“I was, I was a terrible sister. Tris hated me.”

“She didn’t, that’s not true at all and you know it.” Anya didn’t move from the couch, didn’t even turn around to look at Lexa, but she hurried on, clearly knowing that Lexa faltered a little—that her grasp on the wine bottle loosened, that her eyes were suspiciously watery. “She loved you. I don’t think she looked forward to anything as much as she looked forward to your stories.”

“A fat lot of good that did her,” Lexa said bitterly, tightening her grip on the bottle, staring down at it and willing her vision to clear—attempting unsuccessfully to blink away the blurriness. “They didn’t help.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t it? You know, I avoided her. Towards the end. I just…couldn’t.”

“Oh Lexa—”

“—and since I abandoned her when she needed me the most, the people I love are all destined to leave me when I need them.” She pulled out the cork, briefly considering the pros of a glass before she raised the bottle to her lips. Yet, before she could drink anything, she felt a tug, watched in dismay as Anya pulled the bottle away from her and set it aside. (She hadn’t even noticed that Anya had gotten up from the couch, the newscaster and his horrifying tie going utterly ignored.)

“You didn’t abandon her.” Lexa snorted, rolling her eyes, but though she tried to turn away, Anya didn’t let her. “You didn’t.”

“Instead of being there for her, helping her, _saving_ her, I told her stupid stories.”

“That did help.”

“She’s not here, Anya. She’s gone.” She tired to keep her voice calm, tried to keep the anger, the fear, the overwhelming guilt, from her tone, but she knew she failed because Anya’s gaze turned soft, the frown on her lips—formed as she watched Lexa attempt to wrest back the wine bottle—disappearing entirely.

“She was sick, and that wasn’t your fault,” Anya began, sounding a little like she always did—like she wanted to smack some sense into her, like she was right about to start lecturing. “And your stories did exactly what she needed.”

“And what’s that?” Lexa asked derisively, raising her chin and desperately trying to blink away the water in her eyes. It wasn’t working, she knew it wasn’t working, because she thought she could feel the water roll down her cheeks.

“Tris got to spend time with her sister.” Anya reached out and grabbed her hand, holding on tightly like she was afraid Lexa would pull away. “That’s all she wanted or needed. You. And you gave that to her, you made her feel less alone, distracted her, and believe me, she loved you.”

“But she left,” Lexa whispered, hanging her head, the furious blinking unable to prevent the blurriness of her vision.

“She died, Lexa,” Anya said, not unkindly. “She died and she couldn’t help that.” She paused a little, waiting until Lexa raised head, showing off her tearstained cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. “But Tris has nothing to do with what happened with Clarke.”

“I don’t want to talk about Clarke.”

“But you have to. She didn’t leave, Lexa, _you_ did.”

“She told me to.”

“Because she was hurt! But does that mean you’re not going to fight at all? You’re just going to walk away?”

“She doesn’t want me around, she said so herself.” Anya sat up straight, her eyes growing hard, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“I gave you bad advice when I told you not to tell Clarke about Wallace, so I get you might not want to trust me.” She ignored Lexa’s shaking head and kept speaking, not once allowing Lexa to break eye contact. “But I’m telling you, Clarke is different. Don’t walk away from her without bothering to fight at all. Take the risk on her, Lexa. She’s worth it.”

Lexa blinked, allowing the tears to fall as they wanted, and slowly, tentatively, she nodded.

//

Somehow, she expected something a little more dramatic.

She thought there’d be a sign, or perhaps a big, muscled man named Tim who’d look down at a photo and then at her before shaking his head woefully and motioning for her to hurry along by. She thought Raven would make a scene, that Octavia would refuse to serve her, that Lincoln would shake his head in that rueful way of his, apologetic for the others’ behavior.

She thought Clarke would glare and ignore her.

(She didn’t know what would be worse, outright anger and aggression she expected or the total lack of interest she got in reality.)

She expected something dramatic and over the top—something more along the lines of what she was used to when it came to Raven. And honestly, it hurt a little when Raven merely greeted her with a polite smile and took her order without question.

(She almost decided that it was a sign, and she shouldn’t and wouldn’t come back.)

(She changed her mind when, as she left, she noticed her coffee order—always made to perfection—was totally off, lacking the usual cinnamon and vanilla.)

//

“Raven, you’ll take her order, won’t you?” Clarke said quickly as soon as the man ahead of Lexa had finished rattling off his complicated coffee order. Lexa watched with wide eyes as Clarke practically ran into the back, all the while avoiding her gaze, and Raven approached, grimacing a little.

“She ran away,” Lexa found herself saying aloud, blinking in shock. Raven surprised her by letting out a laugh.

“Yeah, well, no one said Clarke wasn’t awkward.”

“She doesn’t want to see me, does she?” Raven studied her a little before pulling out a marker and writing on the paper cup. She didn’t answer, but then, Lexa didn’t need her to.

The order was made to perfection.

//

“She’s not going to talk to you,” Octavia sighed, watching as Clarke once again hurried off the second she saw Lexa approach the front of the line. “What’s the point of coming in every day?”

“Maybe not, but the business can’t hurt, can it?” Octavia frowned, looked around briefly, and leaned forward.

“Don’t give up, but maybe rethink your strategies.”

//

She was used to pain. Used to the feeling of emptiness in her chest, to the taste of ash on her tongue and the inability to feel warm. She was used to the pounding of her heart, the loss of elasticity of her lungs, the painful contraction and relaxation of her diaphragm—the stiffness of her ribs and the cry lodged in her throat. She was used to the hurt, the sorrow, the debilitating amalgamation of the two. 

She wasn’t quite sure, however, how to reconcile that pain with the hope she felt burgeoning somewhere deep in her chest.

She felt hopeful when Anya’s worried looks turned into knowing smirks, when Lincoln pulled her into a hug, when Octavia began joking with her again, when she sometimes caught Clarke watching her curiously before she turned hurriedly away.

She felt hopeful when, after nearly two weeks of coming into the café just like usual, nodding in silent acceptance when either Octavia or Lincoln apologetically told her that Clarke wasn’t ready yet, it was Raven who came to sit down next to her at her usual table, a soft smile on her face.

“I’m sorry,” she said without prompting, shrugging a little when Lexa merely stared at her. “What I did…it wasn’t fair.”

“You tried to protect your friend,” Lexa shrugged, putting away her notebook and pen—she hadn’t been able to write anything anyway, the words were stuck, refusing to come out.

“At the expense of another,” Raven answered, staring at the table. “I shouldn’t have pushed, you know? I trust you, and I should’ve known better than to think you’d hurt Clarke.”

“But I did hurt Clarke.”

“ _I_ hurt Clarke, by making her think you were keeping secrets.”

“But I was.”

“But it wasn’t like you—”

“You can twist it all you like, Raven,” Lexa interrupted, shrugging a little when Raven met her gaze. “But the truth is, I did keep secrets, and I don’t regret it.” Raven frowned, opened her mouth, but Lexa spoke up before Raven had the chance. “I feel terrible that I hurt her, but I did what I thought was right.”

“I still shouldn’t have gotten involved.”

“You were trying to help. No one wants to see their friend in pain.” Raven studied her, let out a sigh, and she turned her gaze to the blank bulletin board, looking sad.

“At first, I was the one writing to you,” she said softly, frowning a little. “Octavia knew about it, agreed that you seemed to cheer up whenever you posted something. But when Clarke took it up, it was like you were on fire, you know?”

“Clarke…?” She was surprised, yes, but somehow—someway—it also made perfect sense, as if she should’ve expected nothing less.

“I wish she hadn’t taken it all down.”

“But she said you—”

“Yeah. But the truth is, she just doesn’t want to be reminded about how much she likes you. And that’s all the letters were—her talking about you.” Raven turned to Lexa again, and she smiled, it was small and sad, but it was sincere. “It was the best thing about this place.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Raven eyed her curiously, and Lexa allowed herself to grin, the hope in her chest expanding, all the way twisted and limited by the pain that threatened to squash it out. “Clarke is the best thing about this place,” she elaborated, shrugging when Raven didn’t seem like she had a response.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, Lexa playing with the rim of her coffee cup while Raven tapped her fingers against the table and stared determinedly at anything but Lexa. “I _am_ sorry,” she finally said, pursing her lips.

“For what?”

“You’re my friend, I don’t want to see you in pain.”

“Friends, are we?” Raven looked up, smiling weakly, apologetically, guiltily, but smiling nonetheless.

“I misspoke,” she joked back easily.

(And the hope in Lexa’s chest, for just a moment—brief and bittersweet—overpowered the pain, and Lexa could do nothing but grin back.)

//

“I tried,” Raven promised, heaving a sigh. “She keeps saying no.”

“I don’t understand, how am I supposed to make her listen to me if she’s being so stubborn?”

“I didn’t say what she was doing was right,” Raven said, handing Lexa her coffee and leaning forward on the counter. “She’s scared, Lexa. Between my accident, her dad’s death, and the shit that went down with Finn, she has trouble with trust.”

“Which is why I need to _talk_ to her.”

“You should try writing to her again,” Lincoln offered, turning briefly to hand another customer a stirrer before looking back at Lexa. “She doesn’t know you’re the bulletin board stranger, she’ll read whatever is posted.”

“But she took the notes down,” Lexa protested, letting out a groan. “I’d say that’s a pretty obvious sign of how she feels about the letters.” Lincoln shrugged and Raven clapped Lexa on the back, determination etched onto her features.

“We’ll figure something out. Don’t worry.”

“What if she never talks to me again?” Raven shook her head, not even bothering to contemplate the notion that so haunted Lexa.

“We’ll figure it out,” she repeated, “there’s nothing to worry about.”

//

Anya rolled her eyes yet again, not looking impressed with Lexa’s grumbling.

“She’s not punishing you, don’t be ridiculous,” she said, taking out the jar of peanut butter and slathering it on Lexa toast before she took a large bite. “Idra had bedder dings tah do,” she continued between mouthfuls of peanut butter and toast, her words practically unintelligible.

“You’re disgusting.”

“I try,” Anya grinned, finally having swallowed. “Indra always gives you the detail-oriented work. That’s what you’re good at.”

“I’m telling you,” Lexa argued, “she _knows_. She knows about Clarke and she knows about the café.”

“There’s no way. Stop overthinking.”

“Overthinking is what I _do_.” Anya wiped her hands on her pants and leaned forward, grabbing Lexa by the shoulders and shaking her a little.

“Is Clarke still running away when she sees you?”

“Obvious, was it?”

“You get a little, well, annoying. And panicky. It’s endearing for a minute and then it makes me want to smack you.”

“Indra is punishing me. This is just like Costia all over again.”

“First of all, it’s just going over Wallace’s financials. It’s not even a big deal. Second of all, you asked to take a lighter load after Costia. Third of all, you didn’t even do anything.”

“But I was tempted to. And Indra has a sixth sense for disloyalty.”

“Disloyal? Are you drunk again?”

“She can tell when allegiances waver, can smell it on you.”

“And your allegiance is to Clarke?”

“If she’d talk to me—”

“—but she’s not.” Lexa glared at her, but Anya seemed unaffected, using her index finger to put another dollop of peanut butter in her mouth. “Just do what Indra told you, figure out a way to apologize to Clarke, and stop moping.”

“If she loses the café, she’ll never talk to me again.”

“You’re not even _doing_ anything,” Anya said tiredly, rolling her eyes. “You’ve got to stop blaming yourself for every little thing that happens. If she loses the café, it’ll be because Wallace is an asshole who hired really good lawyers who _did their job_.”

“But I—”

“Have you written anything lately?”

“No.” Anya stared at her knowingly, smirking when Lexa continued to glare at her. “What?”

“Write to her, Lexa,” she said simply, her smirk widening. “And stop freaking out over Indra. If she wanted to punish you, she’d just fire you.”

“That’s comforting,” Lexa muttered sarcastically, and Anya ignored her completely.

“You’re out of peanut butter.”

//

Octavia huffed in annoyance from where she sat across from Lexa and she snatched the half-written letter out of Lexa’s hands, skimming over it as Lincoln read from over her shoulder.

“It sounds stiff,” Octavia said, pushing the notebook back towards Lexa before crossing her arms over her chest. “Nothing like the other stuff you wrote.”

“You think you can do better?” she snapped, tucking the notebook into her bag and pulling out Wallace’s financial reports instead, resigning herself to working.

“Of co—”

“It’s a rhetorical question, Octavia,” Lincoln said helpfully, rubbing his girlfriend’s shoulders. “You’re overthinking it, Lexa,” he continued, looking towards Lexa with a small smile.

“Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Because it’s true. Stop thinking so much and say what feels right.”

“Better yet,” Octavia added, getting to her feet slowly, “just say how you feel. Maybe say you’re sorry.”

“But I’m not sorry.”

“And you have no reason to be,” Lincoln agreed, shaking his head when Octavia was about to argue. “She did her job and protected her coworkers. You think we wouldn’t have done the same for Clarke if the roles were reversed?”

“Have I ever told you I hate it when you’re logical?” She shook her head ruefully and walked away, grabbing empty cups and wiping down tables on her way to the back. Lincoln, however, lingered.

“I’m serious. Whatever you write, just be honest. It’ll all work out, I promise.”

“You can’t promise something like that,” Lexa found herself saying, watching as Clarke handed the man—the regular who only came in on Thursdays at four, like clockwork—his usual hot chocolate.

“I can,” he said resolutely, looking every bit as confident as he sounded, giving Lexa a glimmer of hope amid her quickly sapping strength. “As long as you’re honest, as long as you write what feels right, it’ll work out.”

“And how do you know that?” 

“Because I read your posts, Lexa. Your stuff? It’s something else.” He grinned at her and, without giving her time to recover from the surge of warmth and gratitude she felt for him, he walked away as well.

And Lexa, after only a moment of consideration, pulled her notebook back out and began to write.

//

She walked into the coffee shop with a spring to her step, excited and cheerful for the first time in quite a while. Her heart—which was silent and dead and cold—stirred a little, as if it was ready to come out of hibernation and was only waiting to be sure that its self-imposed winter was finally over (only beginning to look around and sniff the hope in the air).

It escaped right back into its cave, its confines, its prison, the second Lexa noticed the sullenness and gloom that seeped off the occupants in droves, pervading every inch of the café. Jaw clenching, Lexa searched the shop for a familiar face, grabbing Raven by the wrist the second she noticed her walk by with drooping shoulders and furrowed brows.

“What’s going on?” she asked, the carefully worded and folded piece of paper in her pocket feeling like a dead weight, dragging her down into the depths of her despair and leaving it impossible to breathe.

“Clarke’s closing the shop.” There was no malice in Raven’s tone, no anger, no frustration. There was only woeful acceptance and downcast eyes.

“What?” Lexa managed, feeling as if something was lodged in her throat, making it impossible for her to speak.

“Bellamy says it’s hopeless. So Clarke is throwing in the towel—taking a payout and opening somewhere else.”

“She can’t do that,” Lexa argued, shaking her head immediately. “She can’t just give up.” Raven sighed, but she didn’t seem inclined to agree.

“She doesn’t want to fight anymore, there’s nothing to do.” Lexa’s eyes roved around the shop, searching for Clarke’s familiar light hair and blue eyes, feeling a sinking in her abdomen and a twist in her chest when Clarke was nowhere to be found.

“She can’t just give up,” Lexa repeated, turning away, stopping only when it was Raven’s turn to still her by grabbing her wrist.

“What are you going to do?”

“Something. I’ll figure out _something_.” She dug through her pocket, pulled out the folded piece of paper, and pressed it into Raven’s hand. “Do me a favor. Post this.”

“The bulletin board banter is back then?”

“No. Clarke wants space, so I’m going to give it to her.”

“So you won’t come back?”

“I’ll talk to you later, okay?” She pretended not to hear Raven’s disbelieving snort, and she left the shop, her legs feeling like lead, her heart silent, dead, and cold.

//

_I like to think I’m smart. I can’t help it, it was how I was raised, how I am. I like overthinking; I like going over things a billion times; I like details—especially details others miss. So naturally, you’d think that for someone who prizes herself to be so smart, I wouldn’t have been so extraordinarily stupid._

_I’m not going to apologize. I doubt you’d consider it sincere or even want it in the first place. And though I deeply regret hurting you, I did what I thought was right. I kept silent because I always keep silent—I said nothing because that is what I’m used to. More than that, I had a responsibility to Indra and Anya. (And to myself, because I know who I am, and I think I knew from the start that you deserved far better than anything I could possibly offer). I had a job, I couldn’t jeopardize their livelihoods merely because I wanted to protect you. (And oh how I wanted to protect you.)_

_I don’t expect you to forgive me, Clarke. I wouldn’t dream asking you of it, wouldn’t dare hope for it. Though I can’t apologize for what I did, though I don’t regret the action itself, the guilt is gnawing away at me, the knowledge that I hurt you enough of a deterrent that I’d never dare approach you. You have to understand. This is who I am, ultimately. I lose the people I care about precisely because there is always a part of me that refuses to bend—refuses to open up. I wanted it to be different with you, I wanted to be better. But perhaps I’m just broken and you dodged a bullet with me._

_Which is why I want to be honest. At least once, I want to be entirely clear, entirely truthful._

_You see, I’ve known you were the one of the bulletin strangers for some time. Raven was the one who confirmed it for me, but I more or less already had the idea, even if it never truly was a conscious thought. Because no one quite writes like you, speaks like you, thinks like you. You’re so open, so attuned to your heart, that it shines in your eyes and makes itself known in your words and actions. I knew exactly who was writing on the board._

_I knew that I was writing to you._

_That may not sound important, but it is. When we first met, we talked about my writing, do you remember that? I told you quite stubbornly that I never leave parts of myself in my work, and Clarke, that holds true. Nothing I’ve written has ever been about me—I told you, I write to escape, to get away from who I am. I write because for a second, just a moment, I can pretend I’m braver than what I see in the mirror. But it became different when I wrote to you. It was something more. And yes, at first it was just to pass the time, to forget about my pain, but you sparked something in me. I began to want to tell you everything, and for the first time, I was writing about me. Every feeling I’ve ever had, all my fears, my heartbreaks, my anger, my love…I poured it into those letters, poured it into you because I needed you to know the things I didn’t know how to say aloud. I wrote about me to talk to you; I was truer to myself than I’ve ever been because with you I’ve never felt safer, never felt more at peace._

_And Clarke, even if you hate me, even if you tear this letter up and curse my name forever, I love you. I love your heart; I love your scars; I love your strength; I love your soul. I’ve spent my entire life being afraid, my entire life wanting to guard myself from inevitable pain. But then I met you, and somehow—before I even knew you, before we’d ever spoken more than a few words, before we were anything—you made me feel warm with a cup of coffee and a smile and I knew: even if I would be subject to pain, even if I was leaving myself vulnerable, god, it was worth it. It is worth it._

_Clarke, even if you ignore me, even if you never want to see me again, this is what I’ve wanted to say for ages and didn’t know how: you are the bigger thing, the real thing. You’ve broken down all my walls, I’m nothing but a crumbled mess, and this is a free fall that will last forever. I’m stupidly, irrevocably, terribly, tremendously in love with you._

_And no matter what happens, I wouldn’t have it any other way._

//

She knew Anya knew because she knocked on the door before entering Lexa’s apartment, mouth pressed into a thin line, arms crossed over her chest.

“I’d ask how you were, except I’m pretty sure I already know.”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Lexa immediately said, raising her hands innocently, somehow managing to keep her face impassive.

“Oh sure, you have no clue that Wallace—seemingly out of nowhere—has decided to give up on his shopping complex plans and instead is donating money to renovate the park down the street from the coffee shop you love so much.”

“Is he really? That’s generous of him.”

“What did you do?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“ _Lexa_.”

“ _Anya_ ,” Lexa returned, nearly grinning when Anya shook her head and rolled her eyes.

“Well, _someone_ —ostensibly not you—did something to change Wallace’s mind, and Indra is at the café now, telling Bellamy and the other shop owners the good news. She wants us there.”

“Is she mad?”

“Why would it matter? It’s not like you did anything, right?”

//

Indra was gone when they got to the café, the closed sign was still hanging from the door, but inside the shop, there was music, revelry, a cacophony of laughter and chatter. She and Anya hung back, standing right outside the shop, watching Clarke chat with the other shop owners—all of whom had been threatened by Wallace, all of whom had given up hope—identical grins on all their faces.

“Don’t look so grim, she-devil,” Raven said cheerfully, stepping out of the café and handing Anya a beer, frowning a little when Lexa declined one. “I hear that your boss got a fat check from Wallace, that he’s recommended your firm to everyone he knows.”

“Yes, apparently,” Anya muttered, turning to Lexa with her own frown. Raven looked from Lexa to Anya suspiciously, eyes narrowed and lips pursed.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What do you two know?”

“Lexa knows _nothing_ ,” Anya said, her tone clearly indicating that was anything but the truth. “But I hear that some clever lawyer discovered some…discrepancies…in Wallace’s finances, things he wanted to keep hidden.”

“Interesting,” Raven said, stroking her chin. “I wonder who that could’ve been.”

“Yes, Anya and I were confused as well,” Lexa said, crossing her arms over her chest and quelling the smile that threatened to break free.

“Isn’t it just a stroke of luck that we _got_ the two things we wanted, _exactly_? The firm and this dump are safe and sound.”

“It’s truly a miracle,” Lexa murmured, shrugging.

“Oh yeah,” Anya continued, nodding exaggeratedly. “But Indra did want me to tell this clever lawyer—who we clearly don’t know—that if she—”

“—or he,” Raven added.

“Or he,” Anya agreed with a grin, “ever pulls a stunt like this again, he or _she_ would be fired.”

“Did she really?” Lexa asked, standing up straight and feeling a rush of worry. “So she was angry.”

“Not that it matters to you, but no, she wasn’t mad. We all hated Wallace. If anything, I think she was secretly relieved.” Raven clapped both Anya and Lexa on the back, grinning wide, ignoring Anya’s grimace and returning glare.

“I knew no one who was friends with Lexa could be a she-devil.”

“Could you stop with the—”

“—sorry, not listening,” Raven laughed, limping away and heading back inside, back towards Clarke, throwing an arm over her shoulders, laughing at whatever Clarke said. Lexa smiled at the sight, her heart warming just by seeing the joy on Clarke’s face, and she turned to Anya carefully.

“You think she knew?”

“About the financial reports?”

“Yeah.”

“Does it matter?”

“I don’t know.” Anya sighed, leaning her head on Lexa’s shoulder and guiding her down the street, weaving between other commuters, leaving the paintings and the smell of vanilla and cinnamon behind (leaving the warmth behind).

“All I know is she told me to tell you that she ‘fully expects Miss Woods back at work on Monday.’” Anya mimicked Indra’s deep voice, her careful and clear tone. “She must have known what I know.”

“Yeah,” Lexa prompted, allowing Anya to lead her towards her apartment. “What’s that?”

“You’d do anything for the people you love, even if it means putting yourself at risk.” She didn’t look at Lexa as she spoke, eyes focused somewhere on the ground. “You should tell her.”

“Indra—”

“Not Indra. _Clarke_.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Lexa—”

“She’s happy. That’s all I want. For her to be happy.”

“And you?” Lexa smiled, and though it was sad, though it was small, though she was sure that Anya would have been able to taste the pain that rolled off of her in waves if she only just looked up, it was a sincere smile.

“I want to write.”

“Yeah?” Anya asked, looking up, her eyes wide with surprise. Lexa laughed, nodding.

“Yeah,” she repeated, feeling the itch between her fingers, the tugging at her chest, the words thrumming in her veins and puffing out from her lungs. “Yeah, I just want to write.”

//

When she opened the door, she felt her eyes widen, her heart hammering away at the sight of Clarke, arms crossed tightly over her chest, one hand clutching the letter Lexa had agonized over for days before finally giving to Raven over a week ago.

“I was set on ignoring you forever,” Clarke said without prompting, gaze locked on Lexa’s, not for one second letting up. “But you wrote some stuff that I can't let you keep thinking.”

“Right. Of course.” Her hand moved up to her wrist out of habit, Clarke's eyes following the motion, and she forcibly straightened, hands clenched into fists and pressed against her sides. “Come in.”

Clarke stepped into her apartment, waiting until Lexa had closed the door behind her before she began hurriedly speaking, as if the words had been on the tip of her tongue and she could no longer hold them back.

“You called me open. But I'm not. At least, I'm not with you.” If her heart could moan, she thought it would have. The muscle, stressed and aching, seemed to have taken just one too many blows.

“Clarke, I—”

“When I met Finn, it took us ten minutes to know everything about each other. Our entire life story, just shared like it was nothing.” She paused, tears in her eyes. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she said, holding her chin up, refusing to cry. “I get it.”

“I don't think you do.” She was shedding tears earnestly now, shaking her head and staring at Lexa like she'd never seen her before. Not truly, anyway. “It was so easy to be open with him. But you, you were different, like I just instinctively knew better from the start.”

“I get it, Clarke,” she snapped, feeling a bit of ire, hating that Clarke didn't seem to notice or care that her words were causing pain. She suddenly wished she hadn't let her in.

“I could be vulnerable with him,” Clarke continued, acting like she hadn't heard Lexa at all, tears still rolling down her cheeks, “could let him in because I knew he'd never hurt me—”

“—you made your point—”

But Clarke spoke over her.

“—not because I knew he loved me, but because I never loved him.” That shut Lexa up, her mouth closing with a snap, suddenly unable to breathe. “But you were different. From the beginning I just knew, somehow knew, that opening up to you would hurt.” She uncrossed her arms, taking a single step forward, not noticing or perhaps not caring that Lexa's entire body was shaking. “I didn't fall for you at first sight, but I sure as hell knew that was where I was headed.”

“Then you were right,” she found herself saying shakily. “To not open up. Because you deserve better than me.”

“It didn't matter, Lexa. I thought I was being so clever, thought I was protecting myself, but it was all a lie.” She took another step forward, free hand reaching out tentatively, as if she wanted to touch Lexa but didn't know if she should. “I didn't tell you my life story, I never opened up to you, but it didn't matter. You got in anyway. Like it was inevitable, like it was never about a choice. You got in and just stayed there.”

“If it helps, you got in without my consent too.” Clarke laughed, wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, shaking her head and swallowing hard. Lexa stood there, watching Clarke silently, waiting for whatever else it was she wanted to say.

“I guess that's what I wanted to say. That we both weren't exactly open. And you're not a coward,” she added, meeting Lexa's faze briefly before her eyes focused on the floor. “That's one thing you never were.” Lexa nodded, right hand grasping her left wrist, fingertips pressed against the pulse point. She counted the labored beats, marveling at her heart's tenacity and determination to continue pumping, wondering if it was more normal—if it could possibly be—that other hearts would've long since decided to stop their beating, cease their work, leaving their vessel as nothing more than a shell. She wanted to break the silence between them, wanted to say something that would make Clarke stay, but before she could, Clarke was barely an inch away from her, pulling Lexa's hand away from her wrist, replacing it with her own fingers.

“It's beating,” she murmured, not looking up, eyes on where her fingers pressed against Lexa's wrist.

“I know. You're here.” That made Clarke swallow hard, her grip tightening on Lexa's wrist infinitesimally.

“Lexa, I—” But whatever she wanted to say died on her lips, because she just sighed, her mouth closing with a snap, her shoulders drooping. She released Lexa, took several steps back towards the door, and breathed in deeply, the exhale sounding exhausted and heavy. Lexa watched her, watched her turn, watched her place her hand on the doorknob, and suddenly, the words burst out of her, tumbling as they did whenever she was around Clarke.

“I meant what I said in that letter,” she called, desperately, anxiously. Clarke didn't turn around, but then, it was better that way, better not to see the truth and sorrow in her eyes, better not to feel and taste and watch the inevitable rejection all at once. Lexa hurried on, needing to say the rest before she exploded. "Even if you never want to see me again, I still love you. And that's one thing I'd never change." She expected Clarke to open the door and walk out, so her breath hitched and her stomach began doing somersaults when Clarke turned slightly and gave Lexa a smile.

“Our grand reopening is tomorrow,” she said, turning all the way towards Lexa and leaning against the door. “I'll see you then?” It wasn't really a question, but it was stated fragilely, almost hopefully, and Lexa felt something shift, the weight ease, her heart beating with newfound vigor.

“Yes. Absolutely.”

//

The first thing she noticed was that the letters had been reposted. Everything—from the hastily written sentences on scraps of paper to the long-winded responses to questions they posed each other—had been tacked onto the board, the centerpiece Lexa’s final letter, the one that laid all her feelings bare. (She also noticed Raven’s banner, noticed that next to a few of Clarke paintings were copies of Lexa’s novel, noticed that there was a new addition to the menu: Lexa’s Special.)

She waved to Lincoln and Octavia, grinned gratefully when Raven pointed towards the employee entrance, and she stepped out into the back, her eyes immediately falling to Clarke, who sat on the cold, dank step, head propped up on the heel of her hand.

“I know you don’t allow just anyone to use the employee entrance, but I hoped you’d make an exception for me,” Lexa said softly, moving so that she was sitting next to Clarke, their shoulders just barely brushing. She was careful that they touched nowhere else, careful that she avoided Clarke’s gaze.

“You were wrong, you know,” she said, tilting her head slightly, but otherwise remaining motionless. “It turns out I can’t see right through you, after all.”

“You saw what counted.”

“Did I?”

“You saw me.”

“Did I, though?” she asked, turning to face Lexa, and after a moment, Lexa met her eyes.

“Yes. Absolutely.” 

“I have a few trust issues,” she murmured after a second, shrugging helplessly. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed.”

“That’s okay. I have trouble opening up.” Clarke smiled, and she shifted a little, pressing her side more firmly against Lexa, moving her hand so that it rested right next to Lexa’s.

“If you could tell Tris a story right now, what would you tell her?” The question took Lexa by surprise, and she frowned thoughtfully as she thought it over.

“I’d tell her it started in a coffee shop I wasn’t even supposed to enter. I’d tell her about a place where I made friends, where I felt safe, where I was warm.” She smiled, her heart thudding erratically in her chest, the words coming out less with consent and more with a quiet desperation. “I’d tell her about the café’s owner, how I fell in love with her in eighty days.”

“Counted, did you?”

“I tend to keep track of the things I care about.”

“And the rest?”

“I don’t know,” Lexa murmured, hanging her head. “That’s entirely up to you.” She thought of Tris, she thought of Costia (of her own mother’s words about the lack of love in the world), she thought of all the pain she’d been through.

(Her broken heart beat in her chest, it labored on, pumped on, loyal and faithful no matter how many times it’d been battered and bruised.)

“Honestly?” Clarke whispered, leaning fully on Lexa, resting her head on her shoulder. “I was always a sucker for happy endings.” She moved her hand, threaded her fingers through Lexa’s, and grasped tightly.

(And Lexa’s heart stuttered for a moment, surprised.)

(And that was when it mended.)


End file.
